


Meet your Maker

by Bonbonbourbon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, background pharmercy - Freeform, it won't get weird i promise, widow-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonbonbourbon/pseuds/Bonbonbourbon
Summary: In a strange twist of irony, Widowmaker finds her first friend in Overwatch to be none other than the daughter of the woman she almost killed.





	1. Induction

It was cold.

At first it used to be unpleasant - she remembers that much.

Now it was routine and in a cruel twist of irony, almost comforting to be floating in the viscous blue solution of the pod. Her body bobs a quarter inch up and down in the liquid filled chamber of the cylindrical glass pod, her feet suspended a few inches from the ground as she was held in place by the helmet on her head, a multitude of wires and cables running through it and into the sockets above. She opens her eyes, ignoring the sting of the alkali to her irises that begged her to close them once more. In front of her and beyond her glass confines was her new retainer, half perched on expensive equipment as he spoke to the researchers that had made her into the very thing she was today. Her eyes settled on the man in front.

Dr. Brown. The head researcher.

He was such a common looking man with such a common name, but what cruelty he possessed though. This short and balding man had kidnapped a simple French woman with nothing but dancing in her little pretty head going for a simple grocery run and proceeded to strip her of everything and more.

He turned her from dancing sensation to a bloodthirsty monster.

Gerard had cried the day she returned.

_Oh thank god. Thank you god._

He had held her tight, sobbing into her chest and she had to force a sympathetic smile and crocodile tears for the wailing man. Was this blubbering man really a top Overwatch agent?

_I promise that this will never happen again. I’ll make sure of it._

He had suspected nothing, just holding his tremoring wife in his arms all the way back home and glaring at anyone who tried to take her in that day for any reason, convinced that she needed rest and he would provide that for her. He was an accommodating man and in another lifetime, perhaps she would have loved him.

A cruel smile plays on her lips.

Well, she supposed she did. 

He had waited patiently by the door for her-

Like a faithful dog, she sneers internally.

-as she bathed and clothed and hid a knife in the lining of her silk gown.

_I love you, Amelie._

_I love you._

He had muttered those words breathlessly before he was overcome by sleep, holding her tight in his arms. She laid still as she listened to his labored breathing slow, and the tension to slide away from his arms. Her heart was calm as she pulled out the knife.

There was not a shred of hesitance in her as she plunged the knife straight into him, purposely missing a fatal strike to prolong the pain.

And oh, was there pain. And death. And blood on her hands.

And there was one other thing.

_Amelie, I’m so sorry. Of course they did something to you._

That foolish man did not realize his wife was gone, that his empty words and the way he fought against the gurgling of blood from his mouth to spew them out would never reach his dear Amelie.

She had watched him with a cool fascination as he kept speaking like his words could ever reach.

_Go to the Overwatch clinic. They’ll help you._

Her eyes flash, her heart rate speeds up, and she sees red as she remembers the love and forgiveness in his face and the way her own face had felt wet from something other than blood. She feels something ghost over her cheeks, caressing near the corners of her eyes.

_Shhh, don’t cry, Amelie. Don’t cry._

_I love you, mon amour._

A rush of air escapes her nostrils and mouth, and a million little bubbles explode out and upwards as she twists her jaw to make that feeling of a touch vanish. As the bubbles dissipate upwards, she catches the way Dr. Brown looks up from the board, brow furrowing as he studies her. She sees him click his tongue and her eyes widen.

He turned a dial and clicked a few switches.

She scrunches her eyes and holds back a snarl as the tubes running from the helmet straight into her cranium pulses harder. She grits her teeth, grinding them to oblivion as they inject and pump fluids into her at a painful rate. Cold, hot, painful and sharp. Her mouth opens and more air bubbles escape as she screams in silence in the water. Her mind flashes with memories and with pain, and her fingers spasm and her legs kick as the flood of chemicals run their course through her veins.

She struggles and struggles until she doesn’t. Her heartbeat slows and suddenly there is stillness.

Calmness.

Her eyes go from scrunching to simply being shut and she finds herself going into a lull. There is no more sound or movement from her. She is floating and stagnant, a specimen encased in the very pod that made her to being.

Widowmaker finds herself going into dreamless sleep, ready to continue her recalibration without further incident.

________________

The next thing she hears is worried cries and the ringing of an alarm. Her eyes crack open and even in the blue tint of the solution she knows something is gravely wrong. The alarms are going off and as muted as the sounds of everyone and everything is beyond her pod, she can hear their garbled cries and see the panic in their eyes. The doors suddenly bust open, unhinging itself from the force of whatever blew it. The free-flying door slams into two researchers, beheading one and crushing the other. She squints as her eyes try to adjust to all the bright light coming from the doors.

Her vision adjusts just in time to see the swing of a hammer coming right towards her.

She raises her arms instinctively.

The glass shatters and she feels her rib crack as the hammer grazes her. She falls sideward, spitting bitter liquid out from her lungs and lands bare naked on her ass on the wet ground below. She feels cuts on her feet and bum from the glass shards and hisses from the whiplash her head had experienced – still attached to the helmet in which only half the wires had detached from the top of the pod. She let out a small puff of air as she shakes her head, fingers clawing at the sides of the helmet on her head to pry it completely off. The ripped cables and wires and tubes attached to it crackling and leaking on the ground around her. With one final heave she wrenches it off.

“You can’t get away from us!”

“Secure the area, let none of these Talon agents escape!”

“Tracer, I got this, you go with Winston and check the basement.”

Overwatch agents. Of course.

Widowmaker pushes off the ground only to slip and fall to her knees. She clutches her throbbing head and flexes her toes. She tries to push off again only to fall. Her legs felt heavy and light at the same time, and not like they were her own. She clicks her tongue.

Her recalibration was not finished. Her state was still weakened.

She looks through the chaos of scrambling Talon agents and Overwatch agents alike, beyond the firepower and gun shell casings, which ejected out of their chambers hot and sizzling, dropping to the floor and clinking like copper pennies. Her eyes find one of the exit doors and she starts to crawl, forcing her shaking legs to move towards the door, using her arms as leverage. She keeps her head low and slinks towards the emergency exit, hoping that Overwatch would mow down the others before taking notice of her.

There was an old hidden shelter not too far from here. She could lay low there for a while until she gathered her strength. At least in her legs. She just needed to get away.

Widowmaker is only a meter away from successfully escaping when her path is blocked by a figure in heeled shoes.

She lifts her head, one hand slowly curling around a glass shard on the floor as she stares at the proud Valkyrie standing before her. Mercy’s wings are splayed and she is bathed in bright light that makes Widowmaker’s still sensitive eyes hurt. The woman positively shines as she looks down at Widowmaker with blazing blue eyes, one hand holding her staff upright. She looks positively righteous and a snide remark would have flown out of her lips if it wasn’t for the pistol she held in her other hand, trained right between her eyes.

Mercy’s eyes flicker down at her hand and her eyes narrow.

Widowmaker weighs her options. She could lunge up and slash her throat, but she is aware of the silence that has descended around her. She takes a quick glance around and curses softly. Overwatch has neutralized this base. Her hand unfurls itself and she lets the glass shard fall back down to the ground. Mercy still has her gun trained between her eyes, but Widowmaker’s heart is calm and she feels no vulnerability despite the power stance of the woman and the literal naked state she is in.

Her brow furrows when Mercy lowers her gun before other Overwatch agents securely cuff her and the softer something that flashes in her eyes as she looks at her being taken away. She does not have time to dwell on the look however as she is roughly escorted into a van with all the other Talon agents that were successfully captured.

She wonders if this is the end for her.

(Her heart still beats calmly)

________________

 “Raise your right arm.”

Widowmaker complies with the request, raising it up in a perfect horizontal line.

Angela was a strange woman.

It was peculiar how perfectly at ease she seemed to be with her presence. The doctor was not tense, not tracking her every movement, simply fully immersed with her job as if Widowmaker would never think of picking up any of the stray scalpels lying around and stab her with it.

There was also the thing with her eyes.

"Okay, good. You can drop your arm back down now."

Angela was professional and her movements clinical, but there is a tenderness in the way she dresses her little nicks and cuts, and whenever their eyes meet Widowmaker would see a sliver of that strange compassion and warmth. A chuckle escapes her and she smirks, her mind filtering through her past life’s memories and seeing the friendly talks between her and the doctor.

Once upon a time, they had been good friends indeed. Once upon time.

Brought together by Gerard Lacroix-

_I love you, Amelie._

_Don’t cry._

She flinches and sucks in a breath. She sees that man’s face in her head again, smiling at her so kindly as he choked on his own blood. She feels a queasiness in her gut and Widowmaker balls her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms almost hard enough to draw blood.

Angela stops her inspection at the noise and turns to look at her, head cocked, and eyes filled with worry.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her eyes widen and she catches herself, remembering where she is and who is there. She readjusts immediately. Widowmaker straightens her posture, relaxes her hands and looks down at Angela with a smirk painted neatly on her face, pushing his face away from the forefront of her mind.

“You are worried?” Her words are delivered with a honeysuckle sweetness that teetered on mocking. She crosses her hands on a knee, placing them on top of one another. “Oh, you must like me.”

Angela does not react like Lena, who glares at her flirtatious words as she becomes red down to her neck. Instead the softness in her face slips and her posture goes rigid. The warmth in her eyes all but disappear and her face falls into a professional mask devoid of emotions and an undercurrent of steel. Widowmaker raises a brow.

How cute. She had not been expecting that.

Amusement bubbles up in her. The reactions had been so far to her presence have all been so fun-

Her attention shifts to the imposing figure at the corner of the room. She smirks.

-In more ways than one.

It was uncanny how similar the woman in the corner looked to her mother. Perhaps Angela was not the only one being faced with a ghost today. She had the same eyes, cold and hard like flint, though with more fire. She looked almost unbridled, and Amelie could practically feel the white hot anger simmering right below the surface of her skin. One wrong move, whatever she thought that might look like, and Widowmaker was sure she would leap and attempt to tear out her throat. So far though, the silent warrior has said nothing. For the last thirty minutes, the woman has just stood cross-armed, not moving from her position as she stared at the two of them.

“Now lift your left arm.”

Widowmaker complies, and this time it registers in her that maybe the doctor’s calmness may partially be derived from the presence of the other woman in the room - a watchdog like that would certainly put most people at ease. Widowmaker is intrigued and keeps her eyes trained on the stalwart woman in the corner of the room and tests the waters, delivering a small raise of the brow just on the side of condescending. The woman’s blank stares turns harder and brown eyes flash not unlike the gold ones she saw in the scope of her sniper rifle.

If looks could kill she would be dead.

But they do not, which was why it was not her who had dissappeared that day.

________________

The wooden chair was uncomfortable. So was the cuffs around her wrists that were attached to the metal table. She had been sitting here for over two hours. She knows, there is a clock in this room. She continues to stare at the one-way glass across from her.

The door clicked open and in comes Winston, followed by Tracer and Ana Amari’s daughter.

Ana’s daughter looks livid.

“This is a mistake, Winston.” She mutters lowly through gritted teeth, pulling him by his arm. “You can’t do this.”

“I can. I lead Overwatch now, and furthermore it was voted upon.” Winston says, before he disengaged himself from her calmly, a semi-apologetic look in his eyes. “I’m sorry Fareeha, but this is what we have chosen to do.”

Tracer looks to and fro between the two of them nervously as they stare each other down and Widowmaker perks up at the show in front of her. Now this was interesting. Between the two of them, it was Fareeha who broke, simply closing her eyes for a second or two before turning away on her heel. She left the room, muttering under her breath, but not before casting a look over her shoulder at her.

“Don’t you dare try anything. Or else.” She said flatly, the blank gaze on her face betraying no qualms about delivering on that promise. Widowmaker had a feeling there was not a single hesitance in the woman to end her if she so much as breathed the wrong way. The door then clicked the door shut.

For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of the fan in the room.

“Now what was that all about?” She finally says airily, breaking whatever tension had built in the room. She lays her head on her entwined hands. “From the sounds of it, you are going to give me some good news.”

A cackle escapes her as Winston explains himself. It was unbelievable. She laughed harder. Overwatch was giving her an ultimatum. Go to trial and most likely be executed, or _join_ Overwatch and help take down Talon.

“You’re trusting me?” She gives Tracer a wink. “Was it you who suggested it, cherie?”

“Just answer the question.” Winston says, sidestepping to be in front of the girl and Widowmaker resists the urge to roll her eyes at how tough the ape tried to make himself sound. “Will you join us?”

She chuckles, once.

Working for Talon was fun, but she certainly was far from loyal. The woman they had made her into was one that loved to win. She was not one to be on the losing side, and from the looks of recent events, Talon was heading in that direction. It was true that she loved how they had allowed her to run free and kill without reservation, but it seems Overwatch was extending such an invitation to her as well.

And with better benefits.

This invitation could not have come at a better time.

“Oui. I will join Overwatch.”

Tracer is the one who uncuffs her. Widowmaker rubs at her tender wrists, half-listening to Winston as he speaks of the repercussions of betrayal and the special rules and regulations she has to follow considering her tenuous background. Her eyes flit to the door and a lascivious smirk stretches across her face.

She couldn't wait to walk out those doors and greet Fareeha Amari as a comrade in arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came out from thinking about how I think Widowmaker and Pharah could realistically become friends. It's just a short multi-chapter thing (like it's only five chapters lol). Hope you guys will enjoy. :)
> 
> Edit: This was written before Moira came out.  
> (major inconsistencies with lore is because of this little fact -_-)


	2. Prodding

When they had flown to Peru, Widowmaker had expected beautiful shorelines, an abundance of wildlife and warm weathers mitigated by cool coastal winds. Instead, she is hot and sticky, pulling the unnecessary zipper of her modified top down to her navel as she tries to clear out the taste of kicked up dust from out of her mouth. They are in some small landlocked and lackluster village where the streets were dirt, rocks were piled to form low-rising walls and mosquitos buzzed at every corner.

Widowmaker further reclines in her chair and crosses her legs.

There must be far better ways to be spending a day in this country than holed up in some stone and sod house with local agents discussing plans, she thinks, and far better company. The men stationed here were getting on in their years, all age and yellowed teeth. She glances at the wall and grimaces. The paint had already become off-color. It was chipping and sagging and peeling, in dire need of a replacement - much like the geriatric men stationed here. A cup of tea is offered to her shoddily. Hot brown tea goes sloshing onto the floor as those clumsy hands shake, a few droplets coming dangerous close to her heels. Her lips pull downwards and she hands no assurances to the apologetic man as he dropped to his knees and started to furiously wipe at the spill with a dirty rag.

 _Fool_.

Her gaze settles on his neck. Her fingers twitch.

_It would be so easy._

He was wholly invested in cleaning up his mess, hunkered down, vision on the floor. He would not even see her coming. She licks her lips as she easily imagines the crack of his bones and the way his head would loll to the side if she just reached out and-

Her heart rate spikes and she presses a hand to her chest, keeping it there until she calms.

_Behave, now. The watch dog is here._

Her eyes lift up and settles on Fareeha. She is huddled with the people in command at this old station, discussing plans and pointing at the map that was strewn over the center table. They had been here for over two hours and Fareeha still seemed as focused as when they first stepped off the plane. She chuckled once as the thought arose in her mind that perhaps the stony woman had come out of the womb with that irritatingly blank veneer, already saying ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘yes sir’ like such a speech was simply built into her.

Widowmaker breathes out a sigh and starts to fiddle with the zipper of her top as the thought filtered out and she became bored once more.

She had to admit this new addition to her suit had made her doubletake. The change in color scheme to something more blue was not unexpected, though she was glad they had went with her suggestions of choosing a more muted, pretty metallic blue than the horrendous standard 'Overwatch blue'. Whoever decided on that deserved to be shot. The inclusion of a zipper though, it was not unwelcomed per say, but it was... Surprising.

She did not understand how so-called decency mattered when she would inevitably put a bullet in someone’s brains. She may not be part of normal society no longer, but she was quite sure things had not changed that much.

If it had, she would never be branded as dangerous or on the fringe of society, now would she?

And besides, the zipper had done nothing to stop leering stares. For the past thirty seconds, one of the local men crowded around the middle table, discussing whatever with Fareeha, had been staring at her chest rather unabashedly. Widowmaker does not pull up her zipper, it is too hot for that, but she does cross her arms in front of her chest in annoyance at being ogled at.

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare as clarity blinks into the man’s eyes at her purposeful actions and he flashes a leery and pompous smirk in her direction.

A scathing line ready to be unleashed when she sees Fareeha lift her attention from the map. Half a question is out of her mouth when the woman trails of, noticing that he wasn't paying attention. Her forehead wrinkles deep-set. She follows his gaze and lips, already flat, thin more as she locks eyes with her.

Widowmaker smiles, saccharine sweet, and winks.

Fareeha eyes flicker away to stare at the man once more. He does not notice. One of the other men is moving to give him a shake on the arm when Fareeha stops him with a raise of her hand. She twirls her pen, postulates for a few seconds, then slams the tip of her pen onto a point on the map sprawled on the table hard and fast. The table shakes from the force and everyone in the vicinity flinches at the sudden movement. The old pervert finally snaps out of it.

But it is too late.

“Lieutenant.”

It is only his title, said in a quiet voice only a few decibels louder than a murmur. There is no snarl, no emphasis, no growl. Just a flat, flat delivery and a silent reprimand in her eyes as she stares at the man with an unnervingly dead gaze.

The room is silent and Widowmaker savors the sight of everyone just _squirming._

"We're back!" Lena chirps out as swings the door open, Winston and Angela in tow with a few extra helping hands, all holding the supplies they had went out to get. The room mumbles back greetings and they naturally furrow their brows. "Uh... Did something happen?"

"No." Fareeha says. “Nothing.”

Nobody disagrees with her, snapping back to work immediately. The remaining tension quickly drifts off in the wind as the small annoyance starts to chitter and chatter. Widowmaker sips her tea and enjoys the fact that the man did not meet her eyes for the rest of the evening.

Not even when she made sure to personally shake his hand goodbye.

\--------------------------------

They are on a rooftop, a couple buildings away from the discovered Talon hideout. She sits on the perch of the crumbling building, dilapidated from a war not even the oldest living souls alive today could remember. There is no one living amongst these broken buildings, abandoned from too much wreckage and the passage of time bringing forth better cities. This place was nothing but part of ancient history now.

Widowmaker cleans her sniper rifle with a cloth, wiping the length of the barrel.

It is a silent night. The only sound around was the occasional buzz of a bug that hovered too close to the ear. A shiver of excitement runs through her spine. The air is still and dead. It is the perfect weather to kill in. She pockets the cloth and raises her sniper rifle to look through the scope. Her eyes crinkle, turning into slits when she finds the back of a Talon agents head through a broken window of their makeshift hideout. Her index finger caresses the trigger, itching to pull and hear the clean pop of her gun and witness the inevitable spray of blood.

"Widowmaker, not yet."

Her smile drops and she lowers the sniper rifle. Widowmaker cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, twisting her body so. She rests her sniper rifle on her shoulder and sighs at Fareeha’s intense gaze on the other side of this small roof.   

"I know. I was simply scoping the area again." Fareeha’s expression does not change, but the disbelief rolls in waves out of her. "Trust me, _chaton_."

Fareeha stays rock still in her shining blue armor, glowering at Widowmaker with darkened eyes, not reacting to the dangling bait. Widowmaker cocks her head.

Surely it couldn’t be fun to be so serious all the time.

Her eyes flash brilliantly as a thought springs to mind.

"Thank you, by the way." Fareeha’s face finally slips at the sudden vocalization of gratitude. She furrows her brows in unspoken question. Angela, just as silent right by her, does the same. "For earlier."

She sees the moment Fareeha comprehends what she was referring to.

To her ire, all that happened was that her brow relaxed.

(She wasn’t going to lie. She had expected more, to be honest.)

"It is nothing." Fareeha says, almost robotically. She places her helmet on, but does not bring down the visor just yet. Her eyes are still on Widowmaker. "You should zip yourself up. It's now rather cold."

The words she had chosen denote a suggestion.

It sounds like an order.

(Widowmaker feels an urge to rip out the stupid zipper of her top)

"Fareeha is right, Amelie." Angela says, a soft quality in her voice, both tentative and kind. Her hands are clutching her staff in front of her as she leans closer to her, resting her bodyweight on the metal staff. "You might catch a cold if you stay undressed like that in this kind of weather."

Widowmaker huffs. Angela was irritatingly sincere. Widowmaker had tried her best to find cracks in her veneer, an ugly side lurking beneath her squeaky clean image, but alas she found the opposite. The woman was really what her public image had built her up to be.

But well… her observations weren’t a completely futile endeavor.

Widowmaker swings her legs back over the ledge and makes her way towards the two of them. She puts on a show as she comes closer. Her walk is a saunter and she makes sure to swing her hips and close the distance in an almost prowling manner.

"How kind, doctor." She says over the small hum of Angela’s wings as she finally roots herself in front of the woman. She can feel Fareeha's watchful eyes on her. "You haven't changed at all, since I first met you in Prague. Always so... compassionate."

That pitiful look crossing Angela's face again, a look that seemed half contorted with pain and half with hope. The doctor had that look that belied careful excitement that dear old Amelie was still in there somehow. She saw it in the lingering looks on her from across the dining room, heard it in the probing questions not related to her health and felt it in the subtle movements towards discussions of topics that the French dancer had loved.

"It was a cold day like this and you offered me-" _Amelie-_ "The very scarf around your neck."

Angela's breath hitches. She feels Fareeha stiffen next to them.

Again, Widowmaker was an observant person. It was a convenient side-effect of her trade as a sniper and a desire to simply know how to push a person’s buttons. And one thing she noticed was the constant presence of Fareeha in near distance whenever she went in for a clinical. At first she had chalked it up to an extra-precaution given who she is, but then she realized the woman spent an inordinate amount of time around Angela and picked up her little mannerisms when she was with her.

The way the restraint around her laughter would fall.

The stolen looks and gentle touches.

The attention given to make things a little bit easier on Angela. A prepared coffee. A cheesy joke to take her mind off things. A simple supportive smile from time to time.

Fareeha Amari was completely in love with the good doctor.

And oh how fun it was to be privy to this knowledge.

Widowmaker goes for the kill, intent to hit two birds with one stone.

"Tell me..." She leans in slightly, voice low and sultry, millimeters from Angela now. She caresses the side of Angela's jaw as the woman stays paralyzed, completely transfixed on her, a redness in her cheeks not caused by the cooling temperatures. The pathetic hope still in her eyes. "Will you prepare me a scarf the next time around? It is awfully cold."

Fareeha's nostrils flare and Widowmaker grins, all teeth and cruel amusement. Angela is stammering in the background. She sees the beginning of movement in Fareeha when Winston’s voice booms in all their ears.

_"The kidnapped agents have been located. East wing of the second floor. Pharah, Mercy and Widowmaker, please get into position."_

Widowmaker takes advantage of the distraction to dart away back to her original position at the edge of the building. By the time Fareeha’s eyes are back on her, she is a comfortable distance away, resting the small of her back and an elbow on the ledge as she looks at them, at Fareeha. Fareeha’s is staring right back at her, ignoring Angela for once, who is unsuccessfully trying to rip her attention of Widowmaker with coaxing words and a tug on her hand.

The intercom crackles back into life.

“ _Pharah? Mercy? I don’t see you guys in the air, yet. Please get into position now.”_

Fareeha still continues to glower at Widowmaker, body stiff as stone. She is rigid and coiled. Widowmaker feels a rush in her, eagerly awaiting the prude to finally do something. Anything.

And then Angela comes in and ruins the fun.

She touches Fareeha’s face this time, and instantly Fareeha’s eyes fall away. She turns to look at Angela, listening intently as she says a few words (probably something said in a disgustingly sincere way). Fareeha’s jaw is still tight, but she nods and flips down the visor. She clicks on her thrusters, the ends glowing red as they start to heat up. A yellow light stream emits from Angela’s staff and connects to Fareeha.

“Widowmaker.” Fareeha says right before lift up. She can no longer see Fareeha’s eyes, but she can imagine that startlingly sharp gaze lurking under the golden visor. “This is a rescue mission. No funny business.”

“Your wish is my command.” She says with a mocking bow. Fareeha does not laugh.

She and Angela quickly take off after that.

“Don’t worry, chaton.” She whispers as she watches them fly off. “I’ll be good.”

_So good in fact, that by the end of this, it will be my name they cheer._

\--------------------------------

It is her name they cheer.

She had been the linchpin, the vital factor that led to the rescue of all the imprisoned people. Rather than doing the bare minimum, she had went well above and beyond this time, tactically subduing Talon agents to increase the success of this mission and her efforts had been recognized.

Some of them really thought she had changed. She wanted to laugh.

“Can we take a picture with you?”

He and his friend were dirty, reeking of sweat and grime. Dried blood and other unsavory stains lined their shirts and pants. They were disgusting. She did not want to be anywhere near them.

“Certainly.” She says instead though and plants herself right in the middle of them.

The cameraman is counting down, but her eyes look past the camera and to the reason for her valiant efforts today. Fareeha is rigid, gripping her helmet tight in one hand as she holds a face of contempt and skepticism. She could practically hear the cogs in her head turn, trying to discern the reason for Widowmaker’s efforts today.

The camera flashes and the man thanks her. Winston comes up to her, adjusting his glasses.

“You were incredible out there. I could really feel your motivation.” There is optimism and a hint of pride in his tone. “Has Pharah been helping you? She’s a good motivator.”

Amusement bubbles in her.

“Yes actually,” She says, the half-truth leaving her lips easily. The assessment wasn’t wrong, but not exactly right per say. She grins cruelly in Fareeha’s direction. “She has been a _wonderful_ source of motivation.”

Winston says another something or other (she wasn’t paying attention anymore) and eventually walks off. The room is buzzing with chatter and plenty want to speak with her, but there is only one person in the room she’s interested in. Widowmaker lifts up her hand to allow her rifle to rest on her shoulder, straightens her other arm and points at Fareeha with it, her fingers forming the shape of a gun. She trains that hand right on Fareeha’s left eye, waits for comprehension to dawn and livid rage to form and then pretends to fire.

She holds her fingers up in the air for a few moments like a smoking gun.

\--------------------------------

“You have another examination later, Amelie.” Angela says as she is stepping out the door, shrugging on her doctor’s coat. “Please don’t be late.”

Widowmaker winks, still leaning on the cool metal of the lockers. “Never, cherie.”

Angela smiles at her response, nodding happily.

“I’ll see you later as well too, Fareehali.”

Fareeha nods, a half-smile on her face. “Of course, Angela.”

Angela’s smile widens further, bordering more on sweet and Widowmaker has to resist the urge to gag. She then goes off, closing the door behind her shut with a soft click, leaving the two of them left. It is just her and Fareeha now in the locker room. She chuckles at the silent woman, who was still ignoring her presence as she took off the plates of her armor.

“Angela is beautiful, isn’t she?” Widowmaker says airily. Fareeha takes off another plate of armor and settles it down beside her on the bench. “I mean, with those pink lips, glossy hair, who wouldn’t find her attractive-”

Fareeha abruptly stands and spins around. She barely has time to step back, but she does though, just in time, narrowly avoiding being checked in the jaw by one of Fareeha’s giant pauldrons.

“What’s your angle?”

Fareeha is standing at her full height as she glares down at Widowmaker. She continues to glare at her from her full stance, meeting her eyes without tilting her head. It stays up, defiant and strong, with only her eyes flickering down to meet hers.

"Why, chaton, all this emotion… Are you afraid that the good doctor has slipped out of your grasp?”

“Stop it.”

Widowmaker shifts her weight and tilts her head in an innocent fashion. "Stop what?"

"Messing around.”

Widowmaker takes a step forward and they are almost nose to nose.

"Messing around? Who’s to say that I am not flirting with the doctor for real?”

“You’re not. I can see it in your eyes.” A hint of a growl tinges the edges of her words. She can almost see the snarl that brims underneath. “She’s not a toy, Widowmaker.”

“You know, I do think she likes me.” She says in an innocent tone with a look that was anything but. “She is rattled by my presence and gets this longing look, no?”

“…It is for Amelie. She was her friend.” Fareeha says quietly, sounding a smidge unsure, which delights Widowmaker to no end. Her voice becomes resolute. “In any case, that is not what this is about. It’s about you messing around. Stop it.”

Widowmaker laughs cruelly.

“I won’t, and you know why?” She does not give time for Fareeha to respond. “Because like it or not, chaton, as long as I perform I get to live. That was the deal. I am here to stay.”

Fareeha shoulders rise and fall as she takes deep breaths.

“Well I don’t have to.”

And with that, Fareeha turns her back towards Widowmaker and starts to undo the rest of her armor while staunchly ignoring her presence. Widowmaker watches for a few seconds before she too takes a step, and then another, and then a final one. She knows Fareeha can feel her just inches behind her, but still she garners no response despite the tightness in her shoulders. Widowmaker feels an itch to push things a little further. She reaches out at the tense woman to indulge in her whim. Widowmaker barely grazes a clothed shoulder when Fareeha spins around, grabs her and slams her into the lockers, keeping her in place with an elbow to her neck.

“Don’t touch me, monster.” She snarls out. Fareeha's elbow pushes further into her neck.

Widowmaker is first stunned and says nothing.

She had been goading this woman since she was inducted into Overwatch and the most she had received was intense stares and quiet words tempered with warning. Nothing like this. Not something akin to an outlash. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, rattling her ribcages at witnessing Fareeha finally break.

She feels _alive._

“Tell me...” She finally says, her voice almost a wheeze from the way Fareeha’s forearm pressed at her windpipe. She doesn’t bother to claw at the arm to give herself any breathing space, continuing out with a straggling rasp. “Are these the actions of a hero?”

Fareeha’s face suddenly crumples, the ramifications of what she had done hitting her all at once. Immediately she draws back like Widowmaker was made of hot coals. Widowmaker coughs as she cradles her throat, gasping for the air that she had been so deprived off just seconds ago.

Her neck is tender, but the pressure had not been long.

It will probably not bruise.

(A pity, she could have stirred some drama if she had arrived at the medical ward with one)

“Widowmaker. I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for me doing something like that.”

She turns to look at Fareeha, cruel smirk already on her face.

Sorry?

She was sorry?

Please, there was no possible way she could truly be that-

Fareeha’s eyes, usually so cold and dark when directed at her was mellowed out. They looked softer and warmer and remorseful, like she actually _regretted_ her actions.

-Widowmaker blanches and feels compelled to look away.

She hears Fareeha sigh and mumble another apology, before silently taking the rest of her armor off to presumably store it away. Widowmaker is silent as well, sidetracked by the strange sort of roiling in her gut and the uncomfortable sort of warmth under her collar. Every movement Fareeha made seemed to be amplified and it intensified the strange feeling in her stomach. She felt itchy and wrong.

She needed to get out of there.

Widowmaker quickly gathered her belongings and takes off, leaving Fareeha alone in the locker room.

\--------------------------------

The rest of the night Widowmaker tosses and turns. Fareeha’s face constantly surfacing in her mind and her words ringing in her head. She hadn’t expected Fareeha to react like that. Not like that. Never like that. She had done everything possible to bother this woman, after all.

_Widowmaker, I’m sorry._

She grits her teeth and clutches at her pillow as a strange feeling grows in the pit of her stomach.

It had been heartfelt.

_There’s no excuse for me doing something like that._

It had been heartfelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t intend there to be anything actually romantic between Mercy and Widowmaker. Widowmaker is just annoying Pharah. And yes, Mercy did blush at Widowmaker’s flirtations, but god, who wouldn’t if someone as pretty as Amelie comes and dials on the charm? Pretty girls are pretty.
> 
> (Of course, if you want to interpret it like there is something more, that there is actually Mercymaker –maybe Angela had a crush on Amelie back in the day or something- go right ahead. I’m not the SG cast. Feel free to interpret how you want.)


	3. Amelie

“Wow, it’s been a long time since we came here.” Tracer chirps out as they walk to the waypoint shone on the map.

Tracer is a strange girl. She follows her like a puppy, always so eager to please. It had been fun at first, having a faithful little pet at all times beside her. Especially when she was trying to illicit reactions from Fareeha, but it had grown tiresome as of late.

“What do you think, Amelie?”

It really had been amusing at first, how everyone thought of her as Amelie and how much she could get away with because of it, but now it was annoying.

The soft eyes, the coaxing words, and all the other attempts at bringing the French woman back. A woman whose memories were melded to hers, elicited emotions that weren’t hers, made her feel things for things she really shouldn’t. Most of the time she could weigh it down, smother it among each life she took, but sometimes it sprung up. Little Amelie sometimes spilled forth and she had to deal with the aftermath of everyone thinking she is coming back.

_But you are her. You are my dear Amelie._

The niggling voice in the back of her head sounds far too much like the dead man Amelie was married to.

She scoffs.

She does not know that woman.

She is _not_ that woman.

That woman is simply some ghost that has been following her since her conception and she just did not know how to fully get rid of.

Tracer is no worse for wear, completely oblivious to her internal conflict. Her steps, usually a light bounce with speedy clicks and clacks was muted from the grass below their feet.

“I still think this part of the country is beautiful. Shame we’re heading towards a fight and not just for picnic like last time.”

Widowmaker says nothing as she pulls out a memory of Amelie’s. A hot and humid summer saved only by cool breezes, where Gerard had invited her to join an Overwatch gathering on one of their rare slow days.

“Do you remember, Amelie? You made small, tea sandwiches. Slightly toasted. Thinly sliced radishes dipped in butter laid on small triangles of bread and-”

“-a nice bottle of champagne and a jug of orange juice for the children.”

The words had come out unintentionally and she had regretted it immediately.

But it was too late. A rush of a happy exhale gushes out of Tracer, her face lighting up at Widowmaker finally engaging her for once beyond clipped sentences. She dares a glance at Tracer and feels dread at the unfettered hope shining in Tracer’s eyes.

“ _What?_ ” The question is said more defensively than she wished, with more emotion than she was comfortable showing, her smile dropping.

(Her eyes widen at the realization that there was even a smile on her _to_ drop)

Tracer catches herself at her tone and closes her mouth. She purses her lips and politely shakes her head and continues to walk beside her, whistling some jaunty tune. Widowmaker’s hands becomes fists, with grips so strong that her knuckles turn white. The twinkle in Tracer’s eyes had yet to diminish. If anything it seemed to have doubled from the visibility of her reaction.

“What?” She says testily once more.

“Oh nothing.” Tracer says, dragging her words jovially.

But she can hear the unspoken words.

_Just a little happy that I got to see a little bit of you spring out._

She stops abruptly, the tension she had felt accumulating all these months at being seen as Amelie uncoiling.

She wasn’t her, she wasn’t her, she wasn’t her-

“You’re such a stupid, stupid girl.” The words flow out of her like lava. Hot, broiling and intent to do damage. “Always following me like a puppy? What is it? Do you want to be held? Are you afraid of being alone?”

The smile is wiped off Tracer’s face.

She continues.

She taps the chrono accelerator strapped to Tracer’s chest, before pressing her finger hard onto its center. “You know, you shouldn’t have zipped away. You should’ve stayed there that day.”

If Tracer looked sad before, she looked stricken now.

“If you were a bigger hero, you would’ve taken the hit.” There are the beginnings of tears at the corners of Tracer's eyes, and they fuel her to continue. “Then maybe Mondatta would have lived-”

Her finger flies of Tracer’s chrono accelerator as her arm is yanked hard by the elbow backwards.

Steely eyes glare down at her from beneath a golden visor.

“That’s enough.”

There is an edge in her tone, and the grip on her arm stings.

Widowmaker scoffs, pulls her arm out of her grip. She withholds a flinch from wrenching herself free from steel covered fingers in the shape of talons that did not want to relinquish its hold (she is far too proud to show that it did hurt) and walked briskly away to the front of the group.

Tracer does not follow.

\------------------------------

The mission goes well.

She fires without hesitation and ignores the surprising apologies that came out from Tracer straight into her eardrum from the commlink. She instead focuses on the feel of the recoil, the light that crackles with every shot she took and the way people fell to the floor.

When all was said and done they were apparently to take the train back home.

 

\------------------------------

In the train carriage there were exactly thirty seats.

There were eight of them and they had the train carriage all to themselves.

Given where she had planted herself, right at the end with her back facing the wall, all the other members could have easily sat well away from her. Away, but still perfectly in her line of sight (as was comfortable with her, history had taught her better than to leave her back unguarded).

She sat comfortably in the leather upholstered seat with her arms and legs crossed and a resting frown. She was closed off and not in the mood for conversation. As usual. And for the first hour, she had been alone.

And it had been perfect.

…Then something annoying had to come along.

“I really don’t know what I did to make you so angry to say all that, but I’m sorry.”

It was incredible how full of foolish hope these people were. Amelie is long gone.

And Tracer especially, apologizing to her when the world probably thought she should have been the one to apologize for a low blow.

“You must’ve been tense about something and unloaded on me. I know you didn’t mean it.”

She did mean it.

“Can I sit here?”

She wanted to say no. To say some other glib remark at her character or her failures, but from the way Pharah glowered at her from ten seats away, udjat creasing from the weight of her stern glare, Widowmaker thought otherwise.

 “Go. Ahead.” She grits out unwillingly.

And what a mistake that was, to give her permission to sit by her. She did not know why the thought did not cross her mind to simply refuse her request somewhat politely. Now she was in hell. The woman just wouldn’t stop talking, quickly getting over the first awkward few minutes and springing into stories.

Because ‘everyone loves stories’, apparently.

“-then I went to ‘forbidden floor’.” Tracer whispered conspiratorially before pausing. The animated woman wrinkled her nose, and her hands that were up high and flying wildly drooped downwards for a fraction of a second. “Well, I guess forbidden is a strong word. It was just unused and hadn’t been maintained all that well - put a shoddy little tape over it and bam! Good enough right?”

Widowmaker grinded her teeth and shot Tracer an exasperated look. To her displeasure, the woman misinterpreted her look of annoyance with a probe for elaboration.

“Y’know, the ones that say ‘do not cross’? Like in the ones the cops use?” She said with a sheepish smile, scratching her nose before throwing her hands in the air. “Anyways, not important. Where was I? Oh yea. So. It was pretty dark and really not all that safe to be in, but he had went in there and I had to chase him-”

She wanted so badly to berate her once more. Another tongue-lashing that was sure to leave her running with her tail between her legs this time, but Widowmaker’s impulses were reined in once again by the figure with the penetrating gaze. Fareeha was such a dutiful protector.

She grinded her teeth again. That grip on her arm a few hours prior had been strong and spoke volumes of forewarning.

Whatever she had experienced in that locker room that day, where her esophagus was being crushed by Fareeha’s scarred forearm till her voice was just a raspy undertone, would be nothing to the retribution of hurting one of the people she held dear.

And as much as she loved to play, she wasn’t stupid about it.

She knew she had pushed her luck enough for today.

So she kept her mouth shut.

“And then I got him. It took a while and almost killed me to do so-”

_I wish it had._

“-But I really got him. Saved the day just in the nick of time! Winston said the bomb would’ve gone off at any moment. That’s the story of the day I saved Brussels.”

There was then a silence and Widowmaker finally glanced at the passenger beside her. Tracer was smiling brightly, facing at her with an expression which spilled of sunshine and glee and expectation.

She simply stared blankly back and grunted. The smile slipped off.

“O-oh. You didn’t find that entertaining?”

Good she finally got the point.

“Well, I got another one if you’d like-”

Widowmaker lolled her head back, knocking the back of her scalp on the hard plaster of the wall. She scrunches her eyes, and releases a hiss born both from the physical pain and the migraine she was feeling from this never-ending torrent of stories. Tracer then stopped abruptly, staring at her with big doe eyes and Widowmaker faintly wondered if she really was that daft and had just noticed her mood towards these stories.

“Are you alright? It sounded pretty hard, that bump on your head.” Genuine concern dripping from her words as her hand reaches out for her head. “Let me take a quick look, yea?”

She recoils instantly and ducks her head out of her reach.

“Non. Do not touch me.”

Tracer’s outstretched hand falls limp, a puppy frown briefs her face.

“Alright, if you’re sure…. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The touch seemed too familiar, too tender. Dished out with a hand that ran a little small, but with the same amount of care as his. A reminder of larger hands with flatter palms and a warmth that emanated from it that she- no, _Amelie_ – had cherished.

“Amelie-”

“I am fine.” She hisses, then quickly rose and vaulted over the seat in front of her, before making her way up the carriage to take a seat on the opposite side at the front of the carriage. She ignores the stares of the other members as they tried to discern what exactly happened.

She grits her teeth as memories that are not her own are stirred up within her. The darling smile of a mustached man that she knows and does not know all at once. One that makes her ache and sting and bleed and she wishes the knife she had used to end his life had ended her – no, Amelie’s. It is _Amelie’s_ , she berates herself. Wishes the knife had ended Amelie’s memories as well.

She abhors how her memories surface and pull at heartstrings she shouldn’t even have.

She tightens and bristle further as Tracer tries to head over in her direction. The knot in her stomach releases when she is blocked by the outstretched hand of Pharah. Tracer and Pharah do a small exchange, a pleading look by Tracer that sends chills up and down Widowmaker from the fair idea of why it existed, and a resolute minute shake of the head by Pharah which completely silences Tracer.

Tracer pouts, scuffs her shoes with a petulant kick on the floor, then swivels around to sit next to Winston. Before she sits she stares at her and cups a hand around her mouth.

“Amelie? I’m sorry for talking your ear off, you must be pretty tired and I just got caught up in trying to fix the little mood I caused in ya from earlier today. I’m sorry.”

And then she sat down, short enough to be out of her sight. Widowmaker finally relaxes. She crosses her arms and legs, nestles further in her seat. Minutes go by and finally she closes her eyes to go into dreamless sleep.

It is tranquil there and nothing can get to her.

Not Tracer.

Not Pharah.

Not even images of the late Gerard Lacroix.

\------------------------------

The lights in the medical ward are bright. They shine white and bounce of the pristine white walls and metal trays and tables, refracting into her sensitive eyes – morphed ages ago to adapt for the night. The trade-off was the slight sensitivity she felt whenever she traipsed through the world before the sun went to sleep.

It is different in this ward compared to her time in Talon’s research bases.

Everything is in the open and there is a distinct lack of the gurgling of chemicals, bubbling in their respective pods and the silent clicks of keyboards with no conversations to be had. Here the staff is lively, chattering as they work and the vials of solutions that bubbled and churned seemed far less nefarious.

The merriment is far from her – from them, if she was to be pedantic.

Angela counted as a person, and an astute one at that.

She was a brilliant woman when it came to her job, quickly picking up the tiny flashes of aggravation building up in her the longer she was in close proximity of her staff whenever she had to go for her checkups. Such behavior was not conducive for her therapy apparently, and now her regular checkups were done in the far corner of the room, away from the others, but never with the separators drawn closed.

The woman quickly figured out that she liked to see what was happening in the room, even if she did not want to be part of it.

“It looks like the treatment is going rather well.” Angela says, giving her eyes a break from her monitor to meet her eyes. There is a smile resting on her lips and that mix of hope and determination in her inflection. “Don’t you think so, Amelie?”

Widowmaker ignores her and simply raises a hand up in front of her, splaying her fingers wide as she stared at her fingertips. Her skin was warming considerably. Whatever treatment the doctor was doing was having clear effects. The ocean blue, sometimes noxious purple in the right kind of light, her skin had been since her rebirth had been fading. The color had diminished to the point where it looked like it had sunk beneath her skin, becoming a faint undercurrent, belying her true self.

She was now like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

No one would suspect that nothing made her feel more alive than seeing blood splatter and line the walls and floor like the stars in the night.

No one would suspect a thing from such a young and beautiful and petite woman.

“Are you listening, Amelie?”

“Yes I am.”

Angela nodded approvingly as she made a few scrawled notes on the paper on her clipboard that laid right next to her computer screen.

So old-fashioned. Who does things non-digitally nowadays?

“It looks like your blood count has risen above normal levels, but don’t worry, it should lower soon.” She said as she stared at the monitor once more, displaying what Widowmaker assumed were her stats. “Have you been taking the prescriptions I’ve prescribed you?”

She made a non-committal noise.

“Maybe we’ll switch some of these medicines up.” She muttered as she clicked away and scrolled through her results. “I have a feeling… Yeah, I think that would be good.”

Her eyes crossed the room as the doctor talked to herself.

It was a slow day in the medical ward. A few assistants running about, a couple Overwatch agents doing their own checkups, a few others with graver injuries…

She sucked the side of her jaw.

“-listening? Are you listening to me? Amelie?”

She turns her attention back to Angela.

“What is it?”

She holds a vial in her hands, the one with her black-blue blood and shakes it slightly between her fingers. A brilliant smile is on her face, ringing with pride and progress.

“Overall, though your results are good.” She repeats, eyes lively and bright and Widowmaker finds that she in unable to take it, focusing instead on her barely-there reflection refracted on the woman’s spectacles.

“Oui.” She says softly.

Angela’s eyes crinkle and she turns away once more to finish typing on the keyboard and writing on the paper on the clipboard. The doctor moves with a pleasant bounce and a lighter air, something she had seen more and more often as time went on.

As her ‘progress’ went on.

Her sardonic remarks were taken in stride and with every success – heart rate normalized, skin back to a healthier glow, the resurgence of more ‘normal’ behavior, the doctor became warmer and warmer.

“I think that with time, we’ll get you back in full and in tip top shape. Blood circulation and everything back to standard levels and you won’t even have to ask for a scarf.” She says like she is joking lightly.

It is a terrible joke if it was and Widowmaker was not one for false pleasantries to save moods.

As expected her smile slips at her lack of response. Angela coughs awkwardly into a closed fist, tucks a hair behind her ear (an idiosyncrasy of hers Widowmaker caught a while ago) and swivels in her chair to resume finishing up her work.

“May I leave now, doctor?”

“Just give me a few more minutes to finish up – in case I forgot to do anything. It would be more bothersome to have to call you back in here.”

Seeing no error in Angela’s reasoning, Widowmaker stays put. She takes a deep breath, rolls her shoulders, leans back on the medical table, resting on her stretched arms and watches Angela finish her work in utter boredom.

“And there we go.” Angela says proudly, dusting her hands off. “All done.”

Widowmaker slides off from the medical table, landing on her feet with a soft step. She notices Angela’s calculating eyes and cannot help herself.

“What?”

Angela purses her lips and sets aside her spectacles, clicking off the tech. The little blue readings at the corners of it fades away.

“You’re sometimes hot and sometimes cold… Why?”

Widowmaker rolls her eyes. “You’re the doctor, figure it out.”

“…I misspoke.” She sighed out, grumbling slightly at her petulance. “I meant in the manner in which you hold yourself. At times you are very kind and other times you are cold and closed off, with only sardonic replies to give – like right now… Why?”

Her lips twitch despite herself and amusement bubbles in her.

Kind? _Her_?

When?

And then the answer presented itself with a cup of hot Turkish coffee.

“Fareehali.” Angela sings out, question all but forgotten. Her voice is laced with honey and her eyes dance with affection. “Is that for me? Arabica?”

Fareeha is beaming. She hands the cup of coffee to Angela with a flourish.

“Only the best for you.” Her smile then drops as she acknowledges her. “Widowmaker.”

“Fareeha-li.” She stresses the last part and relishes the way Fareeha’s frown deepens from it.

She also finds herself enjoying the way Angela’s own smile drops and the protective glint entering her eyes at the usage of the pet name. She stalks over to Angela, intent on displaying that ‘show of kindness’ she saw her exude at times.

“Thank you so much for your help, Angela.” She says with a squeeze on Angela’s arm. “I love how much care you take in aiding me get better.”

Angela nods almost disjointedly.

“Um, yes… Sure.” The words are strained, her stance slightly on the defensive at the sudden change in mood. “You really think that much?”

“I do.” She responds easily, in the most sincere tone she can muster, complete with a display of all her white teeth in an almost deadly smile. All for the benefit of the tall woman beside them, watching it all, tight-lipped. “Let’s grab dinner sometime.”

“Ah… Of course. Let me just check my calendar.”

The compounding effect of not phrasing her offer as a question, indicating a surety that it will happen, and the openness of Angela to the idea makes Fareeha’s shoulders slump beautifully.

“I should go.” Fareeha says quietly, defeat in her tone and starts to slink away.

Angela abruptly looks up from her calendar, stares at Fareeha’s backside as she walks away, the door clicking shut before she can find words to say. She stares at where Fareeha had been for a long while before facing her. Her eyes turn from confusion to accusation and Widowmaker simply smiles at her.

“You-…”

“I thought you liked it when I was kind?”

Accusatory eyes turn to understanding, and that undercurrent of steel she saw all those months ago came back. The hardness in her eyes was strengthened by the sudden quiet of the room. Widowmaker took a quick look around.

Strange, everybody had somehow left the premises.

“I will retract my acceptance now.” Angela says with a clinical coldness, bringing her attention back to her. Her tone is anything but warm. It is frosted at the edges. “I will not go to dinner with you.”

“Why doctor, am I not charming?”

“You certainly were. Gerard knew that best.” She blurts out testily before her eyes widen and she clamps a hand around her mouth. The damage was done though, her mind instantly retrieving memories she had locked away. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

_Amelie. You were by far the best dancer on the stage!_

Gerard had laughed out his words with confidence as he spun her around and around like they were the only two people in the backroom. She had laughed right along with him and his infectious happiness, the ache in her feet from being on the tips of her toes for more than two hours straight barely a memory in light of the glee she felt at the moment.

Widowmaker snarls as more memories flash through her head.

_Where should we go for dinner? L’entercote?_

Dinner had been lovely. A three course meal complete with a fine cabernet, pointless banter and lots of secret smiles shared between her and Gerard. The walk home had been difficult with the two of them more than slightly inebriated, but Amelie would have not changed a thing.

_For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have. You are more than enough._

Gerard had been tired that day. Bags under his eyes and shoulders slumped like he carried the weight of the world. Heavy sighs would come out of him when he thought she wasn’t looking. She noticed though – all of it, so she got to work and learned how to make his favorite recipe. A beef bourguinon that his mother used to make for him all the time when he was a young boy.

It didn’t turn out great, but Gerard had appreciated the gesture.

_You are more than I could have ever dreamed of Amelie._

He had paused then, right after eating. She remembers it well. He had looked up at her, eyes serious and pencil mustache crinkling as he smiled with a promise on his lips. A sweet and meaningful look. The one he had when he was going to say something grand.

_One day, all this fighting will be over._

_It’ll just be me, you and a glass of champagne as we live the rest of our lives in laughter._

The memories keep on playing, on and on and on, a film reel she does not want to watch. She feels the anger that festered and boiled in her blood amplify in time with the swell of emotions in her with each passing memory. A distinct prickling starts to infect her heart and her eyes, blurring her vision and her breath feels white hot as it passes between her clenched teeth.

These are not her memories. That was not her life.

Yet her heart hurts.

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts-_

“Pathetic.”

The words are muttered out, strained and tight and strange.

“Excuse me?” Angela says, confusion written all over her face.

She glares at Angela through her tears.

(Curses herself for her tears)

“Pathetic. Gerard was _pathetic._ ” She takes a step forward at Angela. “He. Deserved. To. Die.”

Too optimistic, too loving, too cherished and too blind to see the woman he had taken home was not his wife but something else entirely.

“I enjoyed it, did you know that? Killing him. Feeling his blood on my hands, the warmth of it all. Watching him gurgle and choke and the gradual slow of his weakening heart.” She says venomously with an arrogant flair.

Her smile slips as Angela simply stares at her with _pity_ in her eyes, like the only person she was trying to convince was herself.

And Widowmaker hates how she feels like that is exactly what she’s doing.

“You’re pathetic.” She snarls out, redirecting the attack. “You couldn’t save anyone. Not Gabriel, not Ana, not Morrison and certainly not Gerard.”

She is heaving now, the tears are streaming.

This emotional well she is feeling is foreign. She does not like it.

It must be the meds. It must be. Especially as she says her last words before walking right out that door as well to get away from this trifling woman.

“And certainly not Gerard.” She had said in a voice far too broken for her to believe was her own.

_I will love you hard enough to last a God’s lifetime, Amelie._

\------------------------------

She had avoided the medical bay for a while after that, retreating further into her shell, working only when necessary. Her words had also become far testier, always toeing the line to the point where Fareeha was sure to blow a gasket and retreating right before that boiling point.

So it was no surprise to her to when on the way back to her room, passing by one of the many common rooms, she heard an explosive argument about her.

“She’s not who you think she is, Angela!”

Widowmaker slows her walk and stops. She slinks closer to the door, hiding behind it and peeking out from the corner to see the commotion. Fareeha is standing, hands on the desk, teeth gnashing as she stares wide-eyed at Angela Ziegler. Fareeha is wearing a loose tank top and sweats, hair slicked back from the shower she must have taken post-workout. Angela is sitting, sipping a coffee in a chiffon blouse and pencil skirt, looking every bit composed as Fareeha is wild.

“Fareeha, you must give her a second chance.”

Fareeha somehow becomes more bug-eyed and Widowmaker is stunned by the sheer amount of animation the woman is displaying in less than a minute.

Was this how she was with other people?

(Or perhaps just Angela)

“Second chance?! I gave her second chances and _still_ she acts the way she does! She’s a liability, Angela!”

“She’s been doing her job.”

“For now. She’s been doing her job. For now. But what happens when she gets bored?”

“She’s not going to- You- ugh.” Angela pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t know her, Fareeha.”

“So?”

“So you can’t say things like that.”

“But-”

“-Fareeha, I get your reservations but please. I know Amelie is still somewhere in there. In the last medical checkup-”

Fareeha makes a guttural noise that comes out of the back of her throat, her hands fly up to rub at her face and she makes a motion like she wants to scream into her hands. When they drop back down, Widowmaker sees just how tired her eyes look. Even her udjat seems to sag under the gravity that was in her eyes.

“I know about the last checkup. You’ve told me. In great detail.” Fareeha scoffs, but it sounds more like an exasperated sound. “But Angela, those are just memories she has. The Amelie you knew… She’s gone. She is gone. You’re being-”

Angela suddenly slams her coffee down, the veneer of calm she was displaying suddenly shattering. There are tears at the corner of her eyes.

“What. Are you going to say I’m pathetic too?” Her voice is tiny and broken. She stands up and wipes at her eyes, sniffling slightly. “That I can’t save anyone and I’m nothing but a failure?”

“No- I- Of course not.” Angela is walking away and Fareeha makes an effort to follow. “That’s not fair, Angela, you know that’s not what I was suggesting-”

The door slams shut and Fareeha is left alone in the room. A flurry of curses spoken softly in Arabic escapes her mouth and Widowmaker sees her take a step forward in the same direction once more before hesitating and stopping still in her tracks. She shakes her head, makes a frustrated sound and swivels to go through the opposite door – the one Widowmaker was peeping through from.

She catches her eyes and Fareeha’s brown ones grow hard and dim at the same time. They stare at each other down for a long while before Fareeha breaks the silence.

“You heard that.”

Widowmaker keeps silent. It was a rhetorical question.

Fareeha breathes out sharply through nose, nostrils flaring as she stares Widowmaker down, lips drawn tight. She keeps her eyes on hers as she starts to walk towards her and then past her, stopping right beside her for a moment. Her eyes still are on her, but as usual, her head does not tilt. It stays up high with only her eyes flickering down to meet hers. She seems to want to say something before she shakes her head once, then another two more times, clicking her tongue.

“No. I will not apologize. I may have not known her, but I know _you_.” She stresses the last word, in time with the narrowing of her eyes. “And whoever you are, you are not Amelie Lacroix. Whoever she is, she is long gone.”

And then Fareeha walked away, out of sight with a turn around a corner.

Widowmaker wonders if Fareeha had thought her words would hurt. If that was the reason she had spoken at all. The woman had a penchant of only speaking when it mattered, usually in dry and clipped tones and certainly never to explain herself to her.

To a degree, considering how charged she was just minutes prior, the words may have been spoken instead of retained in the mind to deliver a few stings her way.

But they didn’t.

In fact, knowing that at least someone on this base saw her for who she was and wasn’t imposing the image of anyone else on her…

Well it was-

A ghost of a smile finds itself onto her face.

-It was the biggest relief she had ever felt.

(Finally, someone sees _her_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment where you inadvertently make the person you hate feel valid. Fareeha just can’t catch a break, lmao.


	4. Widowmaker

The wisteria that lace the rooftop of this modest little café rings in a pleasant start to spring. The flowers are in full bloom and sweet scents both heavy and light waft around the area. The place is not full, but not empty either. The influx of patrons was in that sweet-spot where the chatter of others could be heard, but not overpowering where she could not hear herself think. It makes for a nice ambience. It was a fine Tuesday evening. Widowmaker takes a sip of her double espresso, freshly pressed, and sighs dreamily.

 _Magnifique_.

She feels at peace here.

It has been far too long since the last time she had step foot on France.

She almost felt like she was on vacation.

Almost.

She spares a glance at the targets they were supposed to be following and takes a time to filter through the words that comes crackling through her ear piece.

_“How come your plate of sausages look better than mine?”_

_“Fuck off, it’s the same. Drink your beer piss and be happy, I’m not sharing.”_

_“You think they have a decent whiskey here?”_

The conversations by these men were droll and ordinary. They sounded just like how they looked, like just a couple of blue-collared workers. The men were in-shape, rippling with musculature, but it was all hidden under a layer of fat. They were portly, with patchy beards and cigarette ash staining their clothes. To anybody else they probably seemed like simple folk who had clocked out of their jobs and was spending the rest of their evening at a cheap pub to unwind. For Overwatch, they were high profile targets. These ornery men were recently discovered to be Talon agents in disguise, and higher ranked than their speech patterns would suggest. Roughly a week ago Overwatch Intel had alerted them to movement of a few high profile Talon associates acting in France, in ways that alerted the highest of red bells.

Maximillian was in town apparently.

(That was almost as bad as sighting Akande on the prowl)

And Maximillian had been up to no good.

Exactly what, they did not know, so here they were trailing a group of his most trusted lackeys in an effort to uncover whatever ploy he was up to.

“Could you be any less subtle?” she quips.

Fareeha grunts and shifts her position so she is no longer leaning in their direction. Her head now faces her, but her eyes still zeroes right on them with an intensity that could burn cold ice. Her coffee –sweet, with a generous helping of milk – is untouched. Widowmaker sighs. It is a shame the woman was so stiff, when she had done an excellent job looking the part of a proper citizen who just got off work. Wool newsboy cap, clean white button down tucked into trim pants and proper loafers. The jacket she had slung on the back of the chair was neatly pressed as well.

But that staring was far too obvious, and it is with great delight that Widowmaker raises her foot and rams down her clogs straight on Fareeha’s closed toes. Fareeha’s eyes finally rip off from their targets to glare into hers. She kicks Widowmaker’s foot away.

“That hurt." She rumbles out lowly. "Why did you do that?"

“You shouldn’t ignore a girl.” She says airily, unperturbed in the slightest by Fareeha’s simmering anger. “ _Especially_ on a first date.”

Fareeha’s eyes narrow and her face scrunches like she ate something sour.

“Excuse me?”

Widowmaker leans in and pulls Fareeha in by the back of her neck. Her voice is a whisper as she speaks, golden eyes glinting with amusement at the way Fareeha tried to subtly inch away by straining her neck back to keep as much distance as possible.

But as always, too proud to say that Widowmaker gets under her skin.

“I know you’re straight-forward. Fight head on. Super soldier. All that stupid shit.” Her voice is cloyingly sweet as she speaks, borderline romantic. A passerby may think that she was whispering sweet-nothings, especially with the way Fareeha was turning red (though the clench in her jaw said another story) “But this is a recon mission.”

“I know.” Fareeha bites out lowly. “They can’t see. My eyes are shaded by this hat.”

Widowmaker rolls her eyes.

“The wool cap helps, but anyone with half a brain could feel the dangerous vibes pouring out of you.” She releases her hold on the back of Fareeha’s neck and moves to help adjust the collar of her shirt, smoothing any wrinkles. She sends a practiced smile at the waiter as he passes by their table. It drops as he leaves. “All I’m saying is that subtlety is key. We already bugged their table anyways, so try not to gawk, _chaton_.”

Fareeha pulls away to re-adjust her own collar like Widowmaker had ruined it. Her lips are jutting and she looks, well, insulted.

(well, she supposed nobody liked to be talked to like a child)

“Fair enough.” Fareeha grumbles out in defeat, pulling her newsboy cap a little lower, covering her eyes a little more. Her jaw relaxes and she appears petulant rather than fuming now. Another expression crosses her face, filled with tentative curiosity. “You know I’m a little surprised, 'Danielle'. I didn’t think you cared so much.”

Widowmaker shrugs and takes another sip of her espresso.

“I don’t. Not truly, but if those buffoons find out we’re trailing them, there will surely be a fight.” She pauses to thank the waiter, who had come by around once more to set down the mille-feuille she had ordered some time ago. “And if we must fight, my outfit would surely be ruined. Muddied or torn or in other sorts of disrepair.” She then moves her espresso cup. “And it has been far too long since I’ve had a nice cup of coffee. Let me enjoy it.”

“…Right. Coffee and your outfit. That’s what matters.” She responds dryly.

The conversation then ends. They are both silent now, only engaging in occasional glances at the Talon agents to keep tabs on their movements. And Widowmaker enjoys it, the quiet. Part of the reason she asked Fareeha to be her partner for the mission. The woman was quiet. Didn't engage much. And most of all, didn't keep trying to find a sliver of Amelie and continually pester her.

She found her to be good company, even though Fareeha probably does not think the same of her.

(She is still keeping a close ear on the prattling of the agents in her ear, however, remembering that doing missions right was a still very much a large part of staying in Overwatch and staying out of prison)

Widowmaker takes a bite of her mille-feuille and chews slowly, letting the flavors roll over her tongue. The pastry is light, but decadent. The layers are crisp and not overtly sweet and compliments the layers of frosting and cream they sandwhich perfectly. The cake tastes wonderful. The chef in this little café should be proud. She takes another bite and feels a kindle of warmth in her stomach. She had forgotten how delicious food could be. Talon had stripped her of taste long ago. It made it easier to survive – she could eat anything without complaint nor vomiting, but made for very dull meal times.

Perhaps Angela Ziegler truly was a miracle worker.

“Is it really that good?”

The question makes her hand go still. Her eyes flicker up to Fareeha’s. The woman is not smiling, but she is not frowning either. Her eyes gleam in an innocent fashion.

“How rare.” Widowmaker remarks, her hand regaining motor functions to set the fork down neatly. “Since when did you ever want to engage in small talk with me?”

Fareeha’s mouth turns thin and the hardness comes rearing back. She grumbles a few words under her breath and rests her elbows on the table, forearms bulging as she brings her hands together. They move slowly and methodically as Fareeha goes through the motions of cracking each individual digit without actually doing so. No sound comes from her knuckles or her joints. Widowmaker smiles briefly at seeing her habit to de-stress spring up. Just how badly is Fareeha witholding the desire to deck her right now?

“Are the agents talking about anything useful, yet?” Fareeha mutters, head tilted in their target’s direction. Her hands continue to crack her fingers. Well, press them, would be a better term, she supposed. “Wid... I mean, 'Danielle'?”

Widowmaker takes another sip of her espresso.

 “ _Think we have time to order some dessert?”_

_“Dessert? … Maybe. Let’s see what this shithole has to offer for dessert.”_

“Non.” She says. The woman groans and for reasons Widowmaker is not quite sure of, she decides to throw the woman a bone. She pushes her plate of mille-feuille towards Fareeha. “Would you like to try?”

She did not have to be observant to realize quickly that Fareeha had a sweet-tooth – it was almost as obvious as her crush on Angela from the way Tracer could bribe her way out of most trivial matters with a few chocolate bars.

Fareeha looks at the dessert and then at her, eyes narrowing like Widowmaker was trying to play a trick on her. She slowly picks up her fork and takes the smallest of pieces and shoves it in her mouth, all the while not breaking eye contact with her. Her face changes as she chews, there is a somewhat impressed look on her face - in a very Fareeha-esque fashion anyways, which was a slight raise of her brows and a few nods of approval. She takes another bite and there is happiness twinkling in her dark eyes. There is a hint of a smile on her face.

“Pretty good, Danielle.” She says after swallowing. She liked that the woman always had the decency to finish chewing before speaking, saved Widowmaker from being sprayed with bits of food and spit. Sombra had never done that. “Did you always like, um, whatever this is?”

“It is called ‘mille-feuille’ and… no.” She says, almost surprising herself with her own realization. Amelie did not enjoy this pastry, if she recalled correctly. “I did not really care for this dessert really, not until very… recently.”

Fareeha cocks her head slightly.

“…I see.” She says and nothing more.

And Widowmaker is glad that she is taciturn, that she will not ask questions that she herself is not ready to answer. Or even sure how to. Still, she finds herself having to look away from Fareeha’s dark eyes. They’re peering at her with a glimmer of fascination and a kind of openness she was uncomfortable with being faced with. Looking at Widowmaker like she had just seen her for the first time. Something that has been occuring as of late. Fareeha had become less... guarded, though still silent. More open to her and she wasn't sure if she altogether liked it, especially when Fareeha adopted a glimmer in her eye that made it seem like she was studying her.

Her eyes shifts towards their targets. To her relief, so do Fareeha’s. At the same time, Fareeha finally takes a sip from her own coffee. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Fareeha scrunch her face (her coffee probably wasn’t so great now that it was cold), before she curdles the liquid by rotating the cup.

And there Fareeha was, doing that thing where she fiddles as she thinks.

Fareeha was a rather introspective woman, something she had thought first to be dullness. Widowmaker waits calmly, knowing the woman would say something soon. They had the time after all. The Talon agents have yet to move from where they sat with their asses glued to the bar stools of the pub next door.

“ _You think I could get a raise soon?”_

_“As if. You know that boss man saw your little mistake last time.”_

And still speaking about trivial things.

“Chateau Guillard.” Fareeha finally says, the title of her mansion rolling of her tongue in a much less incredulous way now than when she first said it. A couple days in there had made her somewhat accustomed to it now. “It’s currently owned by Danielle Guillard, which is you… But is there?”

“Is there what?”

“Is there a Danielle Guillard?”

“Non. It is simply an alias I had made up not too long ago.”

Fareeha nods again. “Okay.”

Widowmaker furrows at the strange relieved sort of inflection in the delivery of her response. She thinks on it as Fareeha calls over the waiter to get the bill. Judgment enters her when it all clicks together in her head.

“You really thought that there was a Danielle Guillard and I…” She lets the rest of the sentence trail of since they are in public. “Just for an alias?”

Fareeha takes another sip of her coffee, before pulling out a couple Euros to pay for their bills. She hands it to the waiter, who counts it before wishing them a pleasant day and leaving. Fareeha rises, slings her jacket back on and then finally turns her attention back to Widowmaker.

“Can you blame me?”

Widowmaker rises, keenly aware as well that the Talon agents indeed were starting to mobilize and move locations. She puts on her own jacket over her sundress. She thinks on Fareeha’s words as they start to tail them. Gerard Lacroix flashes in her mind. His death flashes in her mind. Her hands stained with his blood flashes in her mind. Widowmaker takes a deep breath and releases, concentrating on making those gentle eyes disappear from her mind.

“No, I suppose not.”

\-----------------------

Her head is throbbing and her eyes sting from dust and debris.

Widowmaker groans. Everything hurts.

She blinks, trying to stop the world from swaying and doubling. With a grunt she turns herself and hoists herself up to her knees and takes a look around. People are running around her, the sounds of their screams muted by the high pitch ringing in her ears. Widowmaker shakes her head and clutches at her scalp with a shaky hand.

_What happened?_

Her eyes spot her sunglasses. They are on the ground, snapped in two, the lenses shattered. Her vision then travels to look at the rest of her. Great. Just great. Her dress is all torn.

Another explosion brings her out of her reverie.

That’s right.

It had been a fucking trap. They had known all along that they had been trailing them. One moment the goons had gone around a corner, the next a grenade rolled near their feet as they too went around the corner. Fareeha had seen it before her and-

Fareeha.

Widowmaker looks around.

That’s right. She had been with Fareeha.

Widowmaker forces herself up, ignoring the cries of strangers and the battle between the French police and some of the stray Talon agents. She takes a quick view around.

Amongst the rubble she sees her. Fareeha is lying face down a couple meters away, near a bent car blasting its alarm in a staccato fashion.

The woman is not moving.

Widowmaker hobbles closer, limping from a sprained ankle. She drops to her knees as she reaches Fareeha. The back of Fareeha’s shirt is shredded, and shrapnel litters her from head to toe. She pulls one out. It’s a nail. It had been a nail bomb.

That fucker detonated a nail bomb in the middle of France.

Fareeha is barely breathing, the rise and fall of her chest slow and weak, her breathing a rasp that sounded on the edge of dying. Widowmaker curses and scrambles to pull out Fareeha’s phone from her pocket. She dials for Winston and curses once more when she realizes the phone is dead.

Shattered and rendered unusable from the blowback of the explosion.

Fareeha groan softly from underneath her and Widowmaker stares, half ways incredulous and more so impressed as the woman pushes off the ground to turn over onto her side. She stares back at Widowmaker with glazed eyes. She grins at her. Widowmaker’s stomach drops at the surreal sight.

“Fancy meeting you here.” She rattles out weakly with a smile. “A French woman. In France.”

Merde, Widowmaker thinks, the woman is delirious. She is joking around with her like she wasn’t on the ground dying.

(And she was joking around with _her_ , of all people)

“I pushed you round the corner in time.” Fareeha continues, not noticing the shocked look on Widowmaker’s face. The grin on her face widens. “Thank god, huh?”

Oh. So that was why she had no shrapnel in her.

Always such a damn hero.

“Oui. Merci, Fareeha.” She says disjointedly, off-kilter at the warmth in Fareeha’s eyes. The hurry comes back into Widowmaker as the woman coughs and blood comes leaking out of her mouth, running out of her like the way it did out of the holes in her back. Fareeha was one of the few people she did not mind in Overwatch – even only for amusement sake. She would not let her die today. “Save your energy, Fareeha. Don't move.”

Widowmaker stands up and starts to look for a working phone. She finally finds one in the cooling hand of a dead man, an accidental victim of the explosion. She sighs in relief as there is no passcode to unlock the phone and starts to dial for Winston. The phone rings twice, Winston picks up and just as she is about to speak the phone shatters and she screams and clutches her hand as pain rips through it, blinding and searing hot. Black-blue blood pours out of the bullet wound now gaping from her palm.

“Now, now. None of that now. No calling for help.” One of the people they were tailing says, his gun trained on her. “Who knew that one of our best agents was such a fucking traitor?”

“I’ll kill you.” Widowmaker snarls out and starts to run at him, hand reared back and ready to strike.

He shakes his head, smarmy grin on his face.

“No you won’t. Say goodnight, Widowmaker.”

A retort is flying out of her mouth when she notices the shadow looming over her. She turns only quick enough to see a bat come crashing down onto her face.

The last thing she hears is a crack and the world turns black.

\-----------------------

When she stirs, Widowmaker knows they are in trouble.

The chains that strap her to the chair are tight and the walls surrounding them are familiar. Grey slate with Talon insignia embossed are all normal traits, but this was no usual Talon base. This was the first one she had ever stepped foot in way back then. She recognizes the tables, the personal touches, the doodle on the wall of the far left corner. It has been a long time since she has been here.

And she never wanted to come back.

A bitter laugh escapes Widowmaker as is struck by the irony that once more, she was in a sundress, fair-skinned once more and awaiting the entrance of her captors. Just like she did all those years ago.

Only difference was that this time, she is not afraid.

And she is not alone.

Fareeha is next to her, slumped and still unconscious. Widowmaker strains to angle her head to see the woman better, accessing the damage. The shrapnel is gone from her back and her wounds are shoddily stitched up, but they are closed none-the-less.

Good. They had a better chance of escaping if Fareeha didn’t bleed out with every step she took.

The light above the main door turns green and steel panels unlock and shift. Out from the shadows come two individuals that she had come to know well. The man who started all this for her, Dr. Brown and the devil himself.

“Ah, Widowmaker, you are finally awake.” Maximillian breathes out in his synthesized tenor. He walks slowly towards them, his gait effortless. A hand is at his necktie, adjusting it as he closes the distance. He looms over her when he reaches. “Rumor was afoot that you had joined Overwatch.”

“The benefits are better.”

Maximillian does not smile – he cannot. His face is all metal and stagnant parts. So his face stays looking grim, but a rush of air escapes him. It sounds like an open valve. It sounds like a wheeze of amusement.

“You were always quick-witted. Another one of the many reasons why you are so valuable to us.”

“Oh?” She sneers. “Are you going to give me a second chance as well?”

Maximillian doesn’t respond, instead he walks away from her and over to Fareeha. He crouches in front of the still unconscious woman. His hand comes up to rub his chin as he sits, resting on his haunches.

“She looks so much like her mother, doesn’t she?” He says. He shifts slightly and cocks his head at her. “Although fitter it seems. Stronger. And friends with you. That’s pretty funny.”

He rubs at his chin for a moment more, then suddenly extends his hand and backhands Fareeha across the face. The sound reverberates in the room. Fareeha stirs. She blinks, groaning and hissing – most probably from the unpleasant wake-up call.

She blinks, half-ways disorientated when Maximillian slaps her again.

Fareeha wakes up immediately from the sting of the second hit. There is fire alight in her eyes, all notions of sleep gone from her irises. They are clear, vibrant and full of anger and retribution.

“Good, you are awake as well now.” Maximillian chirps as he rises to his full stature, sounding no worse for wear and as shameless as can be. He puts both hands into his pockets. “Good morning, Fareeha. My name is Maximillian.”

Fareeha works her jaw.

Maximillian tuts disapprovingly.

“The least you could do is say hello back. It’s only proper.” Fareeha keeps glaring. He hums. “A stoic type, I see. That isn’t a bad trait. We could do some improvements to you, however. Make you… better. Ever thought of becoming better, Fareeha?”

“Joining Talon could _never_ make me better.”

Maximillian makes a clicking noise.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong. We can make you _so_ much better.”

Dr. Brown sighs. “Maximillian, you’re still on that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Dr. Brown.” Maximillian says snippily. “Ziegler made Genji, did she not?”

“He’s only a partial. A _defect_. Broken, but not obedient. Fitter, but weak in the heart. He had left Blackwatch from a shattered _will_ if memory serves me right.”

Fareeha’s voice filters through the air, asking a question that was also on her mind.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?”

Maximillian swivels back to face Fareeha, something akin to happiness radiating from him.

“I’m so glad you asked, Fareeha.” He grabs a seat and drags it to sit right in front of her. “Dr. Ziegler, for all her naivety and silly notions, is a rather brilliant doctor. What she did with Genji… Cybernetics to that degree is incredible. It’s a shame she failed in the end.”

“You’re wrong.” Fareeha says with a resolute shake of her head. “She succeeded.”

“…Ah, you think she concluded her job successfully because he is alive.” Maximillian tuts again. “No, my dear. She failed because she let him keep his mind. Just imagine if she had shut of his emotions and made him into the perfect android to follow order. She could’ve been a god. As powerful as the God AI’s.” His voice turns low and the robotic overlay in it makes it deeper than humanly possible. “I’ve read your file, Fareeha. You are impeccable. Now imagine how much more impeccable you’ll be if you were fully cyberdized.”

His hands outstretch to cup Fareeha’s face, clutching her cheeks with steel fingers.

“You would be the _perfect_ killer. I just know it. And I would be a _God_.”

“Shut up.” Fareeha growls.

He pats her cheeks and releases.

“Did not think you would understand. Flesh still soft, heart just as soft.” Fareeha starts to fire back again, harsh words, and Maximillian pulls out a handkerchief and ties it around her mouth, muffling her cries. “Shhh, I will fix that back-talk and all the rest of your incorrigible parts – just as soon as the team of specialists I hired come down, we will begin with you.”

“I still think it is futile, Maximillian.” Dr. Brown says from where he stood. “None of the other subjects lived – and the ones that made it are no better than the first prototypes of omnics. Useless, only following orders to a tee. Inability to think for themselves like you want, but still as obedient as a pet dog.”

Maximillian sighs in an irritable fashion. “Dr. Brown, if you can have your toys, then I can as well.”

“Widowmaker _is_ perfect.”

“She is not. She is faulty. For all that-” he gestures at her- “for all that you had done, she still has feelings. Emotions. An inability to simply do as she is supposed to.”

“Akande doesn’t mind initiative.”

Maximillian walks towards Dr. Brown. He moves slowly, inching forwards like a predator stalking its prey.

“And how did that work out, doctor?” Maximillian says snidely, hand lashing out to hold Dr. Brown by the neck, pushing him down and forwards to stare at her. His hands squeeze the base of his neck. All pretenses of amusement has dropped from him. “She does not listen, she betrayed us, and she enjoyed a mille-feuille of all things just a couple hours ago. Not an emotionless killing machine, if I may say so. My endeavor is so much better. Keep the mind, but strip the emotions and replace it with steel. No chance of resurfacing emotions. A pure, unadultered killing machine. Stronger too. When was the last time flesh and blood won against metal and circuitry? The answer is _never_ \- not without using items made of metal and circuitry and everything an omnic is made of, anways.”

Dr. Brown removes himself from Maximillian’s grasp, and rubs at his tender neck.

“She _was_ a killing machine. That bitch Ziegler did something. Made her more… human, again.” Dr. Brown moved towards her, bends down to stare right into her eyes with his when he closes the distance. His eyes look mad. “But I can fix it. I can make her a monster again.”

Maximillian sighs and neatens his jacket.

“Well, if you’re going to try again, then do it right this time.” Maximillian takes a seat near a table in the open room. He folds his hands neatly and rests them on crossed legs. “Make sure she stays a monster.”

Dr. Brown grins and Widowmaker feels a shiver down her spine.

“I can arrange that.”

A platoon of men come out of the woodworks and start to carry her out of the room. She hears Fareeha’s indignant screams of protests from behind her, as muffled as it was from the cloth that now rested between her teeth. As she is carried off into another room, she catches a glimpse of Fareeha. Her eyes are flashing as she wrestles against the constraints. Widowmaker smiles, in spite of herself and what was to come from the sight.

_Adieu, cherie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Things ain't looking good, huh?


	5. A Bad Time

The examination light above is bright.

It blinds and sends spots to form in her eyes.

The lamp hovers close above and the heat that emits from it washes over her skin, unbearably so. It feels like she has been stuck into a furnace to cook and broil. She is perspiring, and Widowmaker tastes salt when she licks a trickle of sweat that runs down to her lips. That, and the sour taste of dried blood.

Her blood.

She had been… reluctant to be strapped down to say the least, and Dr. Brown had to use a few ‘measures’ to make her keep still.

(Code for: brute fucking force)

"So many things to fix. Ziegler did a number on you." Dr. Brown breathes lackadaisically, as if he is speaking to simply bide time, just filling in the space of the vacated room. His back is faced towards her, hands out of sight as they tinker with a few machines before him. "Luckily…” He clicks on a few switches. “We have plenty of time to catch up."

The white pads stuck on to her stomach and temples start to hum and heat. She sees her heartbeat on one of the many monitors strewn in this room.

Her jaw clenches, a spike of panic rushes down her spine.

Widowmaker flexes her wrists and rolls her ankle joints once again, another attempt to loosen the binds. Another attempt exercising futility. The thick leather straps barely strain against her pushes and pulls. As used as the straps were, the brown of the leather dulled from time and off-colored from old stains that were not scrubbed out properly in time, they were sturdy. Widowmaker sucks her cheeks and shifts one more time, as much as she can despite the constraints, as if perhaps this time her hands and toes could somehow slip out from the leather that binds.

The action does not go unnoticed by her captor.

"What's wrong?" He asks, turning to fully face her.

Letting her see his face.

The madness that was inflected in his eyes she had seen a half hour ago was gone, or rather, buried under a swathe of calm. He is in control; assured and relaxed. He steps closer and reaches down. A clammy hand travels across her naked thighs. It is not a sexual act, his fingers traverse her skin without a hint of perverse pleasure - it is an inspection of the most clinical of kinds. Still, a ripple of something akin to goosebumps rise on the skin of her thighs from his unwanted touch. He frowns at the bodily response.

"Surely that is not modesty I am seeing... Are you cold?"

She is not.

She had been at the start, when she was first stripped and strapped down to the gray metal slate of an operating table, but now the metal alloy offered no cool reprieve from the heat of the light above, already warmed by the heat of her backside.

Dr. Brown makes his way past her head.

Widowmaker angles her head up to follow him - as much as she could at least.

The strap around her neck was dangerously snug and overextend even a little, the brown leather would dig into the soft flesh of her neck and make her choke. She had felt this first-hand a little while ago, when she had failed to prepare herself for an injection near her collar bone and instinctively lurched.

It did not make for a pleasant experience.

"You know this is all that Angela Ziegler's fault, you know." He mutters out, one hand holding up a syringe, the other clinking the side of it to even out the viscous liquid within. "You could handle the blistering cold winds of a Siberian winter just a few months ago. Almost naked to boot. Now from the handiwork of that woman, a few centigrade colder than the temperature of an average room makes your hairs stand on end and your flesh to bump."

Dr. Brown expels a dramatic long suffering sigh as he steps back into comfortable view.

His mouth quirks before transforming into a gentle smile as he peers down at Widowmaker. It is a genuine close-lipped smile that reaches his eyes, crinkling the sides of it, illuminating his older age. There is adoration and pride shining in his dark blue eyes as he stares at her and it makes Widowmaker's stomach curdle.

She knows it is not her he sees, but what she represents.

His work. His success.

His achievement.

And the confidence that he could build her into that monster once again.

Better than before, even.

Her head does not flinch this time when he pushes the needlepoint into her, this time near the crook of her elbow. Her fingernails do though, they claw at the metal below, scratching at the smooth surface as he empties the syringe out. As the bluish liquid worms its way into her, Widowmaker swears she can feel its journey through every inch of her system, staining her with venom.

Dr. Brown's smile widens, crackens, a sliver of his teeth becomes visible.

"I'm sorry we have to do it this outdated sort of way." He says, not sounding one bit apologetic. Hints of excitement bleeds out of his pores as she starts to convulse. He wets his lips, catching himself. The mask of human decency comes back. "...The thing is, the pods still need to be shipped here to this facility - Overwatch had come to France far quicker than our initial predictions. And let me tell you, it’s not easy trying to get it here. Security has been tight as of late."

Widowmaker wants to make a dry comeback, anything to reclaim some sort of control (or at least to end his prattling), but her body refuses to listen.

Her body twitches and spasms, hands, feet and throat all bruising itself in a masochistic tune against the leather constraints. She gurgles and grunts, shame and embarrassment crawling up to her throat, lining the inner walls of her stomach as she belligerently tries to steady herself, to hold herself down - anything to stop herself from choking.

(Anything to wipe the smug smile on Dr. Brown's face)

He chuckles, bending down to prop an elbow on the table, resting his face on an open palm – just watching her. Observing her struggling to dig the back of her scalp into the metal slab as far as she could, attempting to alleviate the pressure of the strap to her neck. Exercising the only option available to her to make enough space between her neck and the strap.

Doing all she could so she could still breathe.

"Good. Good." He praises her as she starts to gather herself, starts to succeed in her small endeavor. "Hold yourself together as much as you can."

He stays there for a few moments more, before he rises and turns away to open a suitcase that was lying down on a desk adjacent to her. His movements are methodical, practiced and at ease as he turns the lock to the proper combination and clicks it open. He slowly takes out a cloth and carefully unfolds it onto a nearby medical table not unsimilar to the one she lies on.

Even in the midst of ebbing convulsions, the array of tools and other surgical gadgets that lies within it is clear in her vision. He catches her eyes and waves a few tools up in the air.

"Just like old times, huh?"

She recognized them. Those were tools that had broken Amelie all those years ago.

It had done so, spectacularly.

"I will not break." The words are hissed out amongst gnashed teeth, in fear of biting her tongue by opening her mouth any larger. The trail-ends of spasms had yet to end, after all. "I am not her."

Dr. Brown blinks, then chuckles, once.

“No, you are not." He easily agrees as he walks back to her, brandishing a scalpel. He pats her on the shoulder with his free hand. "You are tougher, stronger – better. Which is why it will be a delight to break you once more. Let me unfurl your true self once more, okay? It will only hurt a little-… well,” he starts to slice into her- “A lot, actually.”

Widowmaker grits her teeth once more.

“That's it, Widowmaker. Be strong. Don’t break too easily now," He murmurs as first blood is drawn. "It would be insulting if you did after all the hard work I put into you.”

\----------------------

The torture continues for days on end.

Or at least, she believes it must be days. The truth is though, Widowmaker does not know what day it is, whether it is noon or night or somewhere in-between, or how many days she has been in here. All she knows is this damn room and the holding cell, both deep underground with no windows or clocks or anything to help her understand how much time has passed.

It must have been sometime though.

It must have.

She is cold and hungry, blistered and bruised, and her vision is all but hazy. She is also angry, a festering sort of anger that feels like shards of glass in her underbelly, perfectly mixing with the abject hunger and coldness that is constantly clawing at her insides in recent times… Lately however, the anger has been chipping, turning into something far more unpleasant. Something more dead, more numb, more heavy, like a stone sinking into dark depths of a still ocean and Widowmaker refuses to dwell on that feeling for too long. It has a bitter taste and feels a little too close to that thing Amelie had experienced when she went through this.

And she is not _her_. She is not _weak_.

“You know, there was something on my mind, Widowmaker." Dr. Brown says out of the blue while replacing his bloodied surgical gloves with new pristine ones fresh out the bag, in a tone that didn't dignify the situation they were in. Like he wasn't torturing her. As if they were out for coffee or Sunday brunch. "I didn't understand why you didn't just come back to us willingly once we captured you.”

Widowmaker stays silent.

She doesn’t know the answer to that.

The very same question had ran through her mind after the second torture session.

Why didn’t she?

"You're selfish, and above all, pragmatic. I really expected you to switch sides the moment you came too..." He pauses then shrugs. “Well, not that we would believe you at this point if you had a change of heart. So I guess this is a useless conversation.”

And with that he picks up the electrical probe and plunges it into a fresh wound. 100 milliamps goes through her systems.

She lets out a blood-curling scream.

\----------------------

Her mind is fine. Relatively so.

She forgets and her words slur, but her mind is mostly there. At least, she thinks.

Her body though, is at near-breaking point.

Her breaths comes out like a dying whistle of traditional workplace horns that signaled blue-collar workers that their break was over, all rusty and barely there from lack of maintenance. She is the same, degrading from within and also from the outside. Widowmaker can barely feel her fingers and her body does not feel like her own. It slackens on the slab not so much like she was trying to meld into it, but like at any moment it was supposed to sink into it.

Physically, she cannot take much more. They could untie her and drop her at the entrance of an Overwatch base right now and she would not have the energy to even call for help.

She wondered if this was the end.

That it would end for her, for Widowmaker, back where it all begun.

She is so tired, but a smile cracks on her lips.

It was almost waxing poetic, if this was where she did fall.

Would Gerard be there waiting for her if she passed onto the other side?

The world goes dark as her eyes ( _heavy, they felt so heavy_ ) flutter shut and she finds herself in the dark abyss of dreamless sleep. In here, the cold is nothing, the pain is nothing.

There is just-…

Nothing.

\----------------------

It was not the end for her.

She was thrown into a cellar to heal, awaking a few hours on damp cobbled stone. It takes her a few to completely come to, resting her aching back on the stone wall and drawing up her legs with the help of cracked hands. She withholds a wretch as her eyes adjust to the dim room and she sees the rot on her legs. Her legs are bruised, black and blue and it gives off the impression that splotches of her skin is turning back to that royal purple hue. Her eyes travel to the rest of her body and a weak rasp escapes her lungs as she realizes that her whole body is just the same.

She wets her dry lips, and takes a deep breath through her mouth, wincing as wind whips at the tiny cuts in the inside of her mouth. Trembling fingers scratch at an oily scalp and Widowmaker wishes she had a hair tie to put her flat, tangled hair into a bun to free her skin from the feeling of greasy locks.

She tries to rise before thinking better of it, strength sapped and toes broken.

A wry smile crosses her face.

Broken toes and chipped nails. Reminds her of when she did ballet.

Her smile slips and her eyes widen as her mind catches up to her nostalgia. Widowmaker bangs her head on the back of the wall behind her. She barely registers the pain, already woozy beyond measure, but the dull crack brings back clarity into her brain.

_Not her. Amelie._

The crowds did not applaud for her.

She had never danced the night away on a brightly lit stage in front of a hundred watching eyes.

Bouquets upon bouquets were not sent to her dressing room.

_Amelie, Amelie, Amelie-_

She bangs her head again to repel the thoughts. And again. And again. And-

“Widowmaker?”

Her head stills. Her head strains leftwards, and she stares out into the darkness beyond the steel bars of the jail cell. She sees no one. Nothing in the other jail cells that are open for her to see. No guards either.

Gerard flits through her mind and she breathes sharply through her nose.

Enough.

She had enough voices in her head.

Why on earth was a new one surfacing in her?

“Go away.” She whispers out brokenly. “Just go away.”

“Widowmaker… It is you…” The rasping voice repeats, and it is a struggling thing, like her name had to be pushed out of collapsing lungs. “You’re alive.”

It is at this point that she recognizes the disembodied voice is actually coming from behind her, from the cell adjacent to hers. A second later, it registers in her addled brain that she knows whose voice she is hearing, as far of a departure it was of its usual strength.

“Fareeha?” She tests out.

Amidst her dilemma she had forgotten about the woman, unable to catch a glimpse of her at any other time she was thrown into the holding cell. At some point, she started to forget the woman had come with her altogether, and that perhaps any notion niggling in her head that she had come with someone was nothing more than a fevered dream her mind made up from desperation – just so she would have solace in the knowledge that it was not only her going through this ordeal.

“Widowmaker.” Fareeha says, and there is no hesitation this time, no strange inflection of wonder. She hears the jangle of chains and a frustrated exhale of air. “I’m stuck. How about you?”

She isn’t stuck. She is free to roam the walls of her cell, albeit dressed in her birthday suit, as much as she could anyways. She attempts to stand once more and cries out as her legs buckle, twisted ankles unable to take the weight of her body – as emaciated as it was now. She stops her fall with outstretched arms and it was at that moment that she sees the serial number seared onto the inside of her wrists.

Just like livestock, she thinks.

A manic laugh escapes her then and there. Widowmaker breaks for the first time since returning.

“Widowmaker?”

Widowmaker shakes her head and bites her bottom lip, struggling to hold herself together.

“We’re never getting out, Fareeha.”

“Overwatch will come-”

She cuts her off.

“They won’t, Fareeha. They’ll never find us… We’re not even in Annecy… We’re in some cordoned off section of the catacombs of Paris. The catacombs stretch for miles and unless Overwatch knows where to look, they will never find us.”

And they do not.

Overwatch will not come. It is a lie to think they could ever find it – find them. Tears prickle her eyes as memories from the past surface. The way fear had seized her heart and pathetic hope had run through her veins that Overwatch would come. That they will. That they would. That they could.

That Gerard was just around the corner – she could just feel it.

He just had to be a few minutes away.

She just knew it.

…

So why didn’t he come?

Where was Gerard when she needed him most?

(A voice rings in her head, reminding her that those are Amelie’s memories and not hers, but for once the voice sounds so, so far away)

Widowmaker feels tears prickle her eyes and she curls into herself as she breaks into silent sobs. The sound of a few hiccups though, bounce through the chambers. They are sharp and clear and most of all, ugly, to Widowmaker as she understands that Fareeha must hear it as well. Yet she cannot seem to stop it, it seems.

“Widowmaker.” Fareeha finally says after what seemed to be an eternity, when her sobs subside to muffled sniffling. Widowmaker braces herself for pity. “I will get us out of here.”

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

“You can’t.” Widowmaker says again, this time with a shake of her head. “It’s impossible.”

“I will.”

Her voice still rasps, but there is a robustness in the way Fareeha delivers her words.

It sounds like resolve.

It sounds like Fareeha.

And therefore it sounds promising.

(It makes a small part of her _believe_ and Widowmaker _hates_ that)

“You?! A woman who lives in her mother’s shadow even in her thirties?!” The words flow out of her, insult after insult, like rain water on a summer’s day. She in unhinged and unable to control herself, lashing out at Fareeha for stirring a sense of hope in her. “How could you possibly do anything?! I’m going to be stuck here and it will all be just like before!”

The silence after is deafening, only broken by her labored breathing.

“How could you possibly save me?” She repeats, and hates the way her voice sounds so small.

Not even Gerard could, and surely he had tried his best.

Surely. He loved her so.

 _I will love you hard enough to last a God’s lifetime, Amelie_.

Fareeha doesn’t answer. Chains jingle once more and she hears the rustle of pants. Then there is a succession of taps, the clinks of metal on stone ground and Widowmaker imagines Fareeha had grabbed the chain and was thudding it on the floor as she thought. They had probably taken her iron ring, and it would make for a similar substitute for her habit when she pondered.

“Don’t worry about the details. Just know that I will.” She says with an air of finality. “I will save you. I promise.”

“I’m not counting on it.” She mutters blithingly. “You can’t always be a hero.”

But even to herself her dismissal sounds paper thin. She doesn’t want to, but she does. She believes in the stoic woman just one stone wall away from her. In Fareeha and the heart of a champion that beats inside of the damn woman.

_Please, hurry._

\----------------------

She is tired.

She is so tired.

New lesions and abrasions are splattered over the length of her body, puncture wounds of the needles stabbed bleed fresh. Old wounds are made new once more with incisions and meaningless prodding. She feels just like the experiment she knows she is.

Any quips or fleeting thoughts in her head on conjuring some smart remark have dwindled away. Her mind is blank, her desire to seem unaffected gone. The only thought that flits in and out is stop.

Please. Stop.

Just-…

Stop.

“I have a surprise for you today, Widowmaker.”

She groans at his cheery tone, a meek sound from the back of her throat. Her throat bobs at the constraints as she does and stings as it rubs against rubbed raw flesh. The last surprise had been a cattle prod, a few watts away from stilling her beating heart. Dr. Brown grabs hold of her head and turns it right, forcing her to face the only entry and exit to this room.

“It’s almost here… And there it is.”

The item that rolls into the chamber makes her eyes snap wide open and her blood to ice.

“That’s right, Widowmaker.” Dr. Brown chuckles out, the smoke of his laughter coiling around her like the ropes that bind her. She shudders despite herself. “We finally smuggled in your chamber pod. Let’s get you settled in, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers and his men come and unstrap her from the metal slab. With ease they hoist her up and throw her into the pod and start to attach the various wires and tubes and helmet onto her head. She is far too groggy to fight back, but the fear she feels finds a way to somehow pierce through above it all.

“P-please…” She begs, somehow finding her voice. “Please don’t.”

He bends down, crouching in front of her from outside the pod.

“Now, now Widowmaker. You know just as well as I do that this pod right here is the key to getting you back to tip-top shape. No more of this…” He waves his hands around in the air like he is waving off a fly. “…Feeling sort of crap.”

“Please don’t.” She croaks out again as he moves to shut the pod.

Dr. Brown stills and cocks his head at her.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t.” She says again and her voice is a trembling thing.

She didn’t want to feel the numbness – not anymore. Not like this.

Not again.

“Oh, Widowmaker…” He sighs out, looking a smidgen sympathetic. He shuts the door anyways however and Widowmaker cannot help the cry that escapes her lips and the way her hands bang and press onto the glass. “Overwatch really did spoil you. Letting you… experience joy in things other than killing, I presume.”

_Is that so wrong?_

Overwatch had been so freeing, so... refreshing. She could taste, she could wonder, she could go out and she felt something stir in her heart from engaging in the smallest of tasks. Smelling a rose and feeling a sweet calm flow through her. Watching a television show and becoming excited as the peak of drama hits in a fantasy show. Hearing a song and doing one tiny pirouette when no one was present and feeling her heart sing in time with the rhythm. She had forgotten how good it felt to just be alive.

She did not want it all to be taken away from her.

Not again.

(She had only just remembered)

Dr. Brown presses a hand on the colored glass.

“Don’t worry, all that will disappear in a matter of hours. Never fear, Widowmaker. All this will be nothing but a forgotten dream soon. You won’t miss it at all, I can guarantee that.”

And with that he walked away to sit back on his rolling chair.

A prime seat to watch her fall once more.

The chamber starts to fill with alkali liquid and Widowmaker’s breath starts to become erratic. She claws and bangs at the glass before her, whimpering as she felt the first flood of liquids and electrical jolts flow right into her head.

_No, no, no-_

She feels her fingertips become numb.

_No, no, no- please, no- don’t-_

Not again, she hated that all-encompassing feeling of emptiness anytime she wasn’t putting a bullet in someone’s brain. Drinking herself to death at every moment in which she was not fighting just to feel something– and to give an edge in the battles against the ghosts of people that made her dead heart twinge and ache. Of a man who had left the world, but had yet to leave her alone.

Gerard’s visage flashes in her mind. He is smiling and it hurts to look at.

The liquid has filled the chamber almost to the brim and she is swallowing the viscous solution by the mouthful. It stings as it floods her lungs and she feels like she is suffocating. Her arms and legs flail helplessly.

_Someone save me._

_Please._

Her vision makes like static, black dots start to haze and swamp. She knows she is about to go dark. Fear seizes her soul as she understand that she might not wake up from it this time – not exactly.

_Gerard, Overwatch, anyone-_

Dark eyes and dark black ink flits through her mind.

_I will save you. I promise._

One last sob escapes her, bubbling up to the top of the chamber.

She knew hope would only lead to despair.

_How stupid of her to think otherwise-_

Stone bricks go flying from the side wall, the debris destroying a few of the machines and knocking a few of Dr. Brown’s men out cold.

“What the hell?” Dr. Brown screams, toppling out his chair in fear.

A few of his men surround him to protect the aging scientist.

Out of the crater in the wall, before the dust has even settled, a figure darts out. They grab one of the metal tables and hurl it at Dr. Brown and his team. Most of them do not duck in time. The ones that do quickly grab Dr. Brown, pulling him to the exit door as they fire a few shots to dissuade the intruder from following.

They do not give chase.

The figure jumps instead towards her and Widowmaker instinctively raises her arms. It feels like déjà vu, from the panic and comatose bodies on the floor, to the sirens she hears blaring from the hideouts security system. The only difference this time was that it was a fist that came at her and not a hammer.

The glass of the pod cracks and shatters and she is free-falling from her suspended position. Widowmaker braces herself for impact with the cold ground and the cuts on her legs and feet from broken glass shards, holding her arms up to protect at least her face.

Only she does not hit the ground.

She is caught. The intruder catches her midair, letting her topple on top of them. An arm gently, but securely wraps itself around her waist as she rests herself on their chest. Their breath is hot near her ear as they lean in to whisper in her ear.

“Widowmaker.” They say, and there is an odd mechanical quality to their warm tones, but she knows that voice all the same. Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. The woman had kept her promise. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yes.” She shudders out before lifting her head. “Thank you, Faree… ha?”

She takes a step back. The udjat is the same, the resilience in her eye is the same, but everything else… Fareeha does not have a leg, she doesn’t even have a whole jaw. At least one made of flesh. Sections of the woman have been spliced off, replaced by mechanical and cybernetic parts. The replacement of half her jaw was the most jarring, the metal trailed upwards to above her cheekbones. So was the cybernetic left eye that gleamed a bright violet and dilated at random intervals.

The shouts of men makes Fareeha turn their attention at the door. The woman runs a hand through her hair with a metal hand – still half made, some parts only cables and a wiry frame.

Better than her other arm, Widowmaker thinks as her vision shifts at the lack of an appendage on Fareeha’s other side.

Everything after the forearm was gone.

The shouts of men are only a few meters away now.

Fareeha's cybernetic eye flashes.

She turns back to Widowmaker, mouth fashioned into a grim line. She grabs a coat that was resting on the back of a chair and flings it at Widowmaker, who catches it dumbly, still staring at Fareeha with wide eyes.

“Gawk later, Widowmaker.” She says gruffly, the mechanical tenor that layers her voice more prominent now to her ears. “We have to go.”

The urgency in Fareeha’s voice breaks her out of her reverie. Widowmaker swallows and nods as she puts on the coat, and then they both start running from the hole in the wall Fareeha had made just minutes ago.

“You really came.” She whispers out as they run.

Fareeha does not pause, but she does take a quick look over her shoulder to meet her with her good eye. Her udjat crinkles slightly as her brows furrow. Widowmaker thinks she nods.

“Of course I did.”

\----------------------

It takes them a while to get out, only from the stretch of the winding paths of the catacombs than from any other reason. Amelie had been teased with freedom many times, suddenly finding herself to be tied with ‘loosened’ ropes and even dropped off once at the entrance of the base and told with a cheery smile ‘that she had two hours to try and escape’.

It was a sadistic method of breaking her.

Drip-feeding Amelie with the possibility of freedom like she had a chance. Dangling it in front of her like she could actually escape. But the catacombs of Paris are dizzying and a person can easily become lost. Amelie had ran and ran through halls lined with skulls, with nothing but the sound of her breath to keep her company and the ache in her feet to keep her grounded.

Eventually she would tire, and then in a matter of moments Talon agents would come pick her up. She was never going to find the exit. They had known that. Freedom was nothing more than a dream for her.

But not for Widowmaker.

As much as she detested this place, she knew the pathways like the back of her hand. She held on tight to Fareeha as she ran (Fareeha had quickly realized Widowmaker was in no position to run and immediately dropped down to let her climb onto her back).

_I will be fine, Widowmaker. Cybernetic legs do not tire._

And they certainly did not. Their snail pace had graduated into a full on sprint. Widowmaker struggled to hold on, legs clinging around Fareeha’s waist, arms around her shoulders, all the while whispering directions into Fareeha’s ear as to which way to go.

_Left turn here. And then right. And then left._

A few detours when incoming troops closed in.

_Stay in the wall for a bit. There is a crawl space here. Good, they have left._

_Go out and immediately turn right._

_Keep running. Do not stop._

It felt like hours, running and evading and running once more through the narrow paths of the catacombs, but eventually they reached a viable exit point. Fareeha deftly climbs up, Widowmaker still on her back, breaths coming out steady, not winded in the least. She punches the manhole open and they both scramble out.

Their eyes need no time to adjust. It is a gloomy day.

The world is dark and drab with black skies and heavy rain. A sliver of the sun that peeps out from the mass of clouds for one second indicates to them that it is daytime. The unlucky few that are out are decked in raincoats, shivering from the cold, heads turned down. No one pays attention to them, at the strange pair that had just popped out of a manhole. One in a coat two sizes too big and the other in dirty pants and a torn shirt.

It is a gloomy day indeed and everyone just wants to go home.

It is a day no one would bother writing about.

But as Widowmaker breathes in the rain air and feels the humidity on her skin, her breath catches in her throat. A sob escapes her and warmth blooms in her stomach.

To Widowmaker, the outside world has never looked more beautiful.

“Let’s go home, Widowmaker.”

Home?

Widowmaker swallows and nods.

Yes. Home.

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this was supposed to be 5 chapters? I lied. Bonbonbourbon is a liar. The story hasn’t deviated from original scripting, but it just coming out as longer than expected.
> 
> And uh, hope you guys don’t mind that I didn’t write most of the torture, just implied it and showed the after-effects. I did have explicit torture scenes written out, but I didn’t think it was necessary to get the point across so I scrapped it. No need to make you guys feel queasy for no reason, haha.


	6. To the Chateau

The drive to the trains is mostly quiet.

The engine of the car rumbles faintly and the rain’s drizzle makes pleasant white noise, layering the world with a pleasant pitter patter, but other than that, it is quiet.

She isn’t speaking. Fareeha isn’t speaking. Neither is their unwilling taxi cab driver.

His hands are knuckle white as they grip the wheel and Widowmaker can see rivulets of nervous sweat and an uncomfortable tick in his jaw through the rearview mirror. The man is shaking in his boots and Widowmaker is glad that cars now hover or this trip would be most unpleasant.

She cannot blame him though. His nervousness.

Not many civilians had a set of stones on them to be perfectly at ease at the wheel when someone as imposing as Fareeha is boring holes into their very being. Fareeha might have been sitting beside her square on the middle back seat, but she may as well have sat shotgun with the way she’s hunkered forwards. Her face is only inches away from the driver as she looms beside the man. The arm she rests casually on the shoulders of the shotgun seat is fiddling restlessly, and new steel digits glint with every passing light. A sight that the driver does not fail to see from the corner of his eye.

She sees his throat bob and imagines the small whimper of noise he must be holding back.

When he went on the clock today, he probably did not expect to be forced to a stop by a half-bionic woman walking on the road with a friend dressed in nothing but a coat in tow.

“Take us to the trains”, Fareeha had growled in that monotonous fashion of hers, commanding like the highly ranked captain that she once was, when they entered, they forcibly entered, the vehicle. “Now.”

And Widowmaker had never trusted a man’s quick salute more. Even a fool’s quick mental calculation could deduce that this wasn’t the time to test Fareeha’s patience. For a moment, Widowmaker did find it peculiar that Fareeha didn’t simply divulge who they were, and then she remembered how they looked like. Questions would certainly arise and she couldn’t fault Fareeha for not being in the mood for them after all they’ve been through.

As the cab tickers on, Widowmaker leans the side of her head against the cool glass of the windowpane.

Her eyelids are heavy. She feels like sleeping.

The adrenaline of escaping the catacombs has already vanished, leaving nothing but fatigue in its wake. She blinks and in her daze her sleepy half-lidded eyes lazily travel to Fareeha’s frame. Fareeha’s new bionic eye glows eerily, neon bright in the darkness of this rainy day that is already soon turning night. There is no humor in her face, only the stern grim line of a rigid half-steel jaw. Fareeha looks dangerous. Deadly. Like a demon of the new age – a terrifying sight waiting to be unleashed in a third Omnic Crisis.

The cab swerves as it bypasses another car amateurishly, jerking leftwards more jauntily then necessary. A noise comes out from the back of Fareeha’s throat. It is guttural and deep, tinged with a mechanical layer, and it slides out slowly from between bared teeth.

It compels the driver to drive faster, and they go from a casual 50mph to over 90.

If Widowmaker had the energy, she would have laughed (but even breathing hurts right now). Fareeha may have a glower and Widowmaker may be tired beyond compare, but she still had half a mind to recognize that it isn’t unspoken anger crossing Fareeha's features (all the observations she catalogued about the woman didn't simply fly out of her brain from a little torture, after all). No, Widowmaker recognizes that it is exhaustion that weighs Fareeha so, clinging to her like a jilted lover, making her scowl and keeping her expression dark.

She is simply tired. Slightly agitated from that tiredness. And that causes her to snarl and growl and groan in deep and somber tones.

A sentiment that Widowmaker can relate too.

She too, is tired. She longs to already be back in the Chateau right at this very moment. To blink and find herself in her room, dressed in her night gown, all curled up in her queen-sized bed.

But the world is oblivious to their silent and dreamful wishes.

Widowmaker shifts in her seat and pulls at the coat she wears, drawing it closer. She isn't cold, but she enjoys the way the coat coddles her when she holds it snug against her skin. And so she does. One nice little thing for her body to enjoy, amongst the split and torn skin and the ache that digs deep into the marrow of her bones. Incisions and open wounds still burning from even the slightest breeze from the air-con of the cab.

The world goes by in a blur as they continue their journey forwards to the trains. Where once dizzyinng neon lights passed by giving each other chase, the world outside is now dark and dreary and blackened. They have went past the city limit and the roads have become barren.

Good.

It is peaceful.

Widowmaker shifts in her seat once more, burrowing further into the cheap upholstery. Fareeha is ever stalwart, hunkered forwards fully alert as she continues her vigilant watch of the driver and the road in front of them. The driver is silent, ever looking forwards, pushing at the gas pedal to bring them to their destination as fast as he could. Propelled by a fear that Widowmaker could almost smell.

Widowmaker stifles a yawn and lets her heavy eyes flutter shut.

A little rest will not hurt.

They are still a long way from Annecy.

And Fareeha is here to keep watch. They are safe.

She, is safe.

\-------------------------------

She is awoken by a gentle prod on her shoulder.

Her eyes flutter open and she greets Fareeha with scrunched eyes. She grumbles, rubs the crust off her eyes and takes a look around as she gathers her bearings. The car has stopped, but the driver is rooted at the driver seat. His hands are gripping the wheel and he still dares not to glance back.

"We're at the rail roads." Fareeha says. "C'mon. Time to go."

Widowmaker nods and attempts to put weight on her legs. She winces.

"Fareeha..." She says quietly, painfully aware of her swollen ankles. She huffs, swallows her pride and thinks only of a warm bed as she pushes her next words out. “A little help, please.”

She gestures downwards with a tilt of the head. Fareeha's eyes flicker down and her gaze settles on her feet, all mangled and mashed.  

“…Understood.”

Fareeha shimmies herself out of the car from the other door and Widowmaker waits patiently as Fareeha circles around the back to open the car door on her side. Fareeha then swivels and drops down to a crouch, offering Widowmaker her back. Gingerly, Widowmaker climbs on.

"Hold tight." Fareeha states firmly before she rises. “Good.”

Widowmaker wraps her arms tighter around Fareeha’s shoulders as the woman starts to walk. Fareeha moves to the front of the car and taps the window by the driver side twice. The window rolls down quickly. The driver dares to look up, nerves morphing his face into an absolute picture of distress. He gulps and Widowmaker can see him bracing himself as Fareeha finally speaks.

"Already memorized contact. You will be paid for your troubles."

Fareeha says the words in broken French. She sounds like a caveman who just learned how to speak. Widowmaker was about to make a quip about it when she hears the sound of a train. She turns and sees an old red cargo train. Their train. The train that heads in the direction of Annecy.

Fareeha sees it too.

She does not wait for the driver to answer her.

Fareeha bolts off into a sprint and Widowmaker is bouncing on her back with every step as she races to catch up to the quickly moving vehicle. Once she is only few meters away, Fareeha bends her knees and then catapults up from the ground. A powerful push of her new cybernetic legs propels them easily towards the train. Fareeha’s arm whips out to catch the end railing of the locomotive and fingers curl around the railing successfully. With one strong pull of her arm, they both go vaulting over the railing and safely onto the back of the train.

A breath of relief escapes the both of them. They had made it.

Fareeha crouches and stays crouched, making note not to rise until Widowmaker has fully seated to ensure that her sprained ankles and the abrasions on her legs aren't agitated any more than they had to be.

"Thank you." Widowmaker whispers once she is safely settled on solid ground.

Fareeha takes a seat beside her.

"No problem."

A strange sort of silence then stretches between them, the kind that stops any desire to break it immediately in its tracks. Widowmaker pulls at her coat. The open wind that whips around them as they sit on the back of this train licks at her wounds far more painfully than the air-con and she tries her best to keep as much of her as possible covered. Widowmaker turns her body to the side, curling into herself towards the middle of the train where the wind channels hit least. Her chin tucks down until her mouth is half-covered by the cloth of the stolen coat.

"Are you cold?"

"Non." She replies and it is a half-lie. She is cold, so cold. Yet she is hot as well. Her wounds feel like they are on fire. "I am fine."

Another lie. She is hurt. Badly.

And the wind is making the pain all the worse.

Widowmaker is close to finding a position that is both decently comfortable and covered when Fareeha pushes off the ground with an arm back into a steady crouch. She turns towards Widowmaker and her arm tucks around her. They are now in an awkward (and unreciprocated on her part) hug. Then, as quick as lightning and as smooth as a snake on sand, she pulls Widowmaker by the waist. Pulls and turns at the same time, and in one fluid motion Fareeha lands back on her ass and Widowmaker falls straight into her lap. Fareeha's good arm stays wrapped around her. Widowmaker blinks, utterly confused as to how she suddenly became nestled on top of Fareeha.

And why.

"The wind bothers you." Fareeha says without prompt, answering her unasked question. "This is better, yes?"

Widowmaker feels a snide comment bubble up in her throat. Something salacious about Fareeha wanting skinship with _her_ of all people – but it is comfortable and that stops her. The woman is warm, even her metal bits emit heat, and her body shields Widowmaker further from the forces of nature; from the wind that whips around them as the train zooms along straight to Annecy to the chill of a night’s downpour in late April. So she makes no asinine remark. Instead she buries herself further into Fareeha and relishes the added protection. Ruminates in the compassion of this stoic woman.

The rain continues to drizzle lightly around them. Another silence stretches between and she almost believes that Fareeha has fallen asleep when the woman suddenly speaks once more, out of the blue.

"I don't think the driver understood me."

"…You mean when you said you'd pay him back?"

She feels Fareeha nod.

Widowmaker exhales a small puff of amusement. She knows that Fareeha was being kind. That the words were meant to be assuring. That Fareeha probably wanted to assuage any doubts in the man that he would have been paid for his troubles at a later date. She had memorized his contact information, after all.

But.

"You are blunt and in your broken French, your words sounded more like a threat." She explains honestly. "Stating that you have 'their contact information' in such a gruff tone sent a whole other message, chaton."

Especially from the way that Fareeha nudged her chin in the direction of his displayed identification stuck on the sun visor of his car in a rather aggressive manner as she spoke.

Fareeha groans.

"Shit." She curses then grumbles under her breath in Arabic. The vibrations of her grumbling travel and tickle Widowmaker’s ear as she stays closely pressed on the woman. "How long until we get to Annecy?"

Widowmaker plays with the torn fabric of Fareeha's shirt, picking at a hole near the collar.

"Roughly three or four hours, considering where we hitched a ride on this cargo train. We must alight from this train right after we pass a giant statue of a... How do you say in English?" She licks her lips as she finds her words. "Whatever. Of this thing that I will recognize. Do not worry."

"Three or four hours, huh?"

Fareeha shifts. Widowmaker hears a whine above her and she realizes it is Fareeha's bionic eye making that high pitch keen as it dilates and contracts. And as she works her metal jaw, grinding her teeth side to side, the metal squeaks lightly.

"Then it seems we'll be back at the chateau well after sundown."

"Oui." Widowmaker agrees and burrows further into Fareeha's shoulder. Her hand travels to the metal plate right below Fareeha’s throat – diamond in shape. Probably the entry point in which they used to alter Fareeha’s voice box to give it that mechanical flare. “It must have hurt.”

Fareeha makes a clicking noise.

“It did.” She raises her right arm, or rather what was left of it, now only a stump that ended right where her elbow is located. “Not as bad as this though. Or this.”

She momentarily lifts the arm she has draped around her waist up, twiddling her fingers, both fully plated and only wiry frames and exposed wires. A half-made hand of hard steel and circuitry.

“No painkillers?”

“None.”

“Then we are the same.”

Fareeha’s half-made hand moves to her face. Gently, steel fingers comb her oily hair to remove them the stray strands pressed to her forehead and cheeks. She hears Fareeha’s breath hitch as she stares down at her – visage now completely unobscured.

“Not the same.” She mutters as she clicks her tongue again.

Widowmaker’s face burns. She hasn’t seen how she looked like, but she could guess. She could feel the bruises and shattered cheekbones. Can taste the dried blood on her split lips and its sharp iron tang.

“Shit Widowmaker, they fucking tortured you.”

Widowmaker sits up a little at that.

“You make it sound like Maximillian did not.”

Fareeha shakes her head once.

“No, he didn’t. Not truly. It was all about replacement. Everything, was about replacement.”

There is a bitterness as she speaks and Fareeha’s cybernetic eye whines again as it dilates and contracts. As inopportune of a moment as it is, one thought does cross her mind as she stares at the robotic eye.

_Like mother, like daughter._

Both have lost an eye and a little more than that to Talon.

But at least they both made it out alive.

(She knows. She knows Ana Amari is alive.)

(And she also knows, that this may not be the best time to divulge such a thing to Fareeha)

“This is what they did to you last time?”

Widowmaker chuckles wryly.

“Not this bad.” Amelie broke so much faster than her. They didn’t have to bring out even half the tools she saw. “It has never been this bad. Not even all the other times.”

“Other times?”

“If I failed. Messed up.” She further explains, and Widowmaker is not sure why she is continuing to divulge details. She chalks it up to having nothing better to do. They is still a long ways to go before they reach Annecy. “Anytime I did not do well enough. Correction practices, reconditioning, so to speak. Though never to this degree.”

They were only trying to correct her. Not break her again.

“Widowmaker _._ ” Fareeha says softly and Widowmaker flinches at the tone.

Fareeha sounds so sympathetic, her face is fraught with anguish and a sudden spurt of defensive brims in Widowmaker. She does not enjoy the warmth Fareeha provides any longer.

(And hates how she doesn’t have the energy to wrench free of her grasp)

“Do not pity me.” She says testily, and the bite in her words is derailed by a pathetic strain of her voice. “I am still a killer.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I found it fun.”

Fareeha’s eyes flicker up. Her head tilts a fraction to the right as she considers that for a moment.

“…You didn’t know any better. You were taught too, and they tortured you whenever you thought of doing anything otherwise.”

She scoffs and cackles.

“What? Are you trying to say you find me _innocent_?”

“No, but you’re not exactly guilty either.” She says simply. She works her jaw. “There is more to you Widowmaker. You’re more than a killer.”

Gerard bubbles in her mind. He is smiling at her, bloodied and wounded. A knife in his chest.

The knife she plunged.

“You’re wrong.” She spits out tersely. “This is who I am, Fareeha. The only thing I am.”

And the only thing, she would ever be.

“No, it’s not.” Fareeha fires back sharply. “It’s who you were taught to be. I know for a fact that they didn’t tell you to enjoy mille-feuille but you do anyways. And I know it was something you only recently learned about yourself as well. You are more, Widowmaker.”

She flinches. Fareeha's words sting, grounded in some level of truth. The longer she had stayed with Overwatch, the more she learned that there was more to her. That she had likes, dislikes, beyond murder. Panicked hard when Talon tried to take all that away from her again. She keeps mum for a long while, having nothing to say to that. Until, she finally does.

“I have blood on my hands.”

Fareeha stares at her, unfazed. She works her jaw again and the expression on her face makes her seem so much older.

“So do I.”

A yawns then rips out of Fareeha and Widowmaker is glad for the distraction, because she does not think her heart can take any more of this discussion.

“Sleep Fareeha. You need to recuperate.” She murmurs. “I will wake you when we near.”

It was Fareeha who ran to escape the catacombs of Paris while piggy-backing a hurt woman and simultaneously dealing with their own pains from being cybernetically altered. Not her. And such a thing takes a toll on a person. If Fareeha suddenly becomes incapable of walking later when they arrived at their stop due to fatigue they were both screwed, because she couldn't either. Her legs are still shot.

Fareeha hums.

"Okay." She finally says. "I’m counting on you, Widowmaker.”

And then slowly, but surely, Fareeha nods off, leaving Widowmaker alone with her thoughts and the playback of Fareeha’s words that continue to rattle off in her mind.

\-------------------------------

True to her word, Widowmaker wakes Fareeha on time, and under the cover of night they make it back to her chateau.

She has never felt happier in her life to see the steel gates of her home.

\-------------------------------

Widowmaker punches in the code to open the gates to her chateau.

The light blinks green and the gates open with a heavy groan. They walk in. Well, Fareeha does - she is still being carried by said woman, not piggybacked this time, but honest to god carried. Fareeha’s left arm is snaked under her legs, keeping her upright as she herself loops her arms loosely across Fareeha’s neck for extra balance.

"Hello?" Fareeha's voice bounces off the walls, and echoes through her empty chambers. "Anybody home?"

The renovations to her home are still half-done, seemingly untouched since the last time she set foot in this place. Paint cans are strewn where they were last and a layer of dust envelopes the corners of the room. It is like the place has been vacated, empty once more and left to rot. Not a single trace of upkeep present at all.

She frowns.

It wasn't like she was saving her breath, betting on Overwatch and hoping to see confetti fly upon their return, but she truly didn't expect them to have abandoned them. Or at least-

Her eyes flicker up to Fareeha's face.

-At least not her, anyways.

Fareeha turns to go up the stairs and as she takes her first step, they both hear a distinct click of a gun from above.

"Don’t move.”

The normal lilt in the voice is gone and the voice is a register lower than normal. That iconic Swiss accent however, is as thick as ever and it immediately unveils the identity of the aggressor.

It is Angela Ziegler. It is her who stands at the top of the stairway. It is her who has the gun trained on them. She is in her Valkyrie suit, bathed in the moonlight that leaks in through the giant decorated glass window of the chateau that hangs right above the entrace way. The woman glows under the light, shaded in the soft blue hues of the night. Her wings appear downright ethereal as they glow a soft yellow, but her eyes are so cold. They gleam like shards of ice. The rest of her features are just as sharp. Her mouth is turned down into an ugly snarl, her shoulders set and there are bags under her eyes that hang so heavy her very eyes seem to sag from them.

Her hair is messy, flying, and Angela simply looks like she is at her wit's end.

Now this, this was what she expected when they went through the French doors of her chateau. Not the gun trained at them, but the appearance of people off kilter from losing sleep. Crazed from trying to find them.

_Like how Gerard looked, way back then._

Fareeha shifts, inching forward a fraction.

"Do not!" Angela shrieks, waving her gun. There is a manic quality in her movements. "I mean it!"

And Widowmaker does not question the integrity of her words.

It also occurs to her now that Angela cannot see them. The light that shines through the window falls short of hitting them. They look like nothing more than two questionable figures lurking in the darkness, and one has a terrifying glowing eye of bright violet. Widowmaker uses what is left of her energy to push against Fareeha's chest, using her as leverage to push her head into the light that rested right in front of them.

Angela's breath hitches and her hold on her gun slackens.

"Amelie?" Sorrow and worry crosses her features. "Your face..."

"Oui." She says softly, ignoring the second part of her statement. "And this is Fareeha."

"F-Fareeha?"

"It's me." Fareeha says carefully, aware that the gun is still trained on them. She makes no move to inch forward again, probably afraid of an accidental misfire on Angela’s part (it would be stupid to die now, Widowmaker agrees). "It's me, Angela. Please put down the gun."

Angela's hands immediately drop down. She lets out a sob, the gun clatters to the ground, and she starts to make her way down the stairs, bounding over to them as fast as she can.

"I- We-!... We've been looking for you for so long and-"

Her voice dies and Widowmaker sees it. Widowmaker sees the moment her face morphs from unadultered happiness to a sheet white that even Angela’s naturally pale skin looked warm against. She lifts her head to see that Fareeha had finally taken a step into the light and understand instantly what had happened.

They are no longer in the dark. Every bruise, every alteration, every injury on them completely open for the world to see. And Angela is seeing it; the brokeness that is her and the monster that Fareeha has become in its entirety.

\-------------------------------

Her face is a mess.

Widowmaker holds up the mirror to her face and grimaces. For the first time in her short life, she wishes she was as weak as the woman whose body she now occupies. The woman had broke before any lasting damage could be done to her and perhaps she should have pretended to be broken just as easily. She has Amelie’s face after all; maybe Dr. Brown could’ve been fooled.

If the ploy had worked, it would have spared her from the scars that now mar her face. The deep scratches near her eye, a torn lip that would never fully heal, and burn marks on the side of her jaw. Patches of her hairline receding from too many abrasions.

Well, at least her ankles are better.

Everything Angela could do, she had done. Never has Widowmaker seen scalpels and other surgical tools move with such grace and lightning speed. Wounds stitched up in a blink of an eye, perfect knots and stitches. The woman had worked tirelessly and efficiently, unnervingly silently as she operated with a deep concentration that was reflected in her eyes. A determination born not only from a desire to help Widowmaker, but to finish as quickly as possible so she could go see _her._

(It is baffling to Widowmaker that the two of them are actually still not dating yet)

She stares at where Angela stands now.

The woman is faithfully by Fareeha’s side, the attendant that was aiding her already finished up and nowhere to be seen. She is holding Fareeha’s hand, threading slim fingers against the steel digits and wiry frames. Even at this distance she can see the tears that spring in the corners of Angela’s eyes and the trembling frown on her lips.

Angela is angry, hurt and sad, all at the same time.

Fareeha says something to Angela, in quiet tones murmured for Angela’s ears only. Probably soothing words meant to placate, complete with that special soft grin she delivers only to Angela on her face. A grin whose sweetness is unchanged even by the metal of her new jaw. Whatever she says backfires though. It breaks the woman and all vestiges of control immediately shatters. Tears flow down freely and Angela is hiccupping tears as she talks rapidly, arm flying everywhere before they finally rest on Fareeha’s shoulders.

Widowmaker wants to turn away from the private moment, but she finds that she cannot.

At least, not until Fareeha stops her tirade with a hug and buries her face in Angela’s hair, murmuring sweet nothings, clutching Angela's waist with the gentlest of holds. Angela sinks into the embrace, arms snaking under Fareeha's arms (what is left of it) to return the hug, slender hands palming the back of her shirt, at the space where Fareeha's shoulder blades met. Suddenly all that she sees is an image overlay on top of them of herself and Gerard and she turns away, unable to bear the tender sight any longer. She remembers doing something similar. Feeling similar whenever Gerard came home bruised, bloodied and battered and practically broken. She has felt that kind of fear and worry steel in her heart.

And had been in the receiving end of it too, when they found her all those years ago.

She bites her bottom lip and draws blood.

It hurt to witness Fareeha and Angela’s tender moment. To be witness to a tender moment between two people who still had a chance.

Hers had been ripped away.

By her own two hands.

\-------------------------------

The rest of the Overwatch group is finally back in the chateau. They had not abandoned them, like Widowmaker had originally thought. Everyone had been so busy trying to find them that they hardly spent any time in the chateau, which is why it had seem as run-down as ever. Angela was there today, only by sheer stroke of luck.

Now they are bickering amongst each other on a new game plan to take down Talon. Maximilian and Dr. Brown in particular, for their unique brand of crimes against humanity.

She thinks it has more to do with their captures than anything else though.

She cannot focus on their words however, pre-occupied with something that had slipped her mind until now. Something Fareeha had said that rubbed her the wrong way.

_It was all about replacement. Everything, was about replacement._

“I think that’s enough for today. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow when we’re more rested.” Winston says as he claps his hands, trying to effectively end the somewhat futile meeting. Everyone had been talking over each other. “Um, any final questions or comments before we wrap this up? In regards to anything, really.”

 “Oui.” Widowmaker says, ignoring the questioning looks and wide-eyed expressions of surprise at the fact that she is contributing. “Lock me and Fareeha up.”

“…I’m sorry. What?”

She repeats herself. Everyone is stunned. Fareeha rises from where she sat.

“Widowmaker… What’s going on? I am fine.”

She folds her arms and purses her lips. She glances at Angela and then back at Fareeha. She remembers that private moment she saw in the medical ward and the image it has imprinted in her mind compels her so.

“You shouldn’t take any chances.”

Fareeha’s brow furrow. “They didn’t break me – I’m still me. This isn’t an act.”

Widowmaker shakes her head and clicks her tongue.

“Don’t be a fool, Fareeha. Maximilian didn’t want something that can act. He only wanted something that _acted_. A killing mission. Like you said.” She stalks over and jabs Fareeha on the metal plate right under her throat. “He put this in you, replaced chunks of you from head to toe… Who is to say he did not mess with your brain?”

That there isn’t some switch he implanted in Fareeha’s brain that he could turn on with a flick of the wrist and make her into an obedient killing machine for small moments in time?

_And who is to say that at some point, he did not mess with mine?_

“I-…”

Fareeha is flailing and she goes for the kill.

“Do you really want to wake up one day with the blood of your loved ones in your hands and not even remember squeezing the life out of them? Or worse-” Her voice becomes a whisper- “being awake the whole time and not being able to stop your own body?”

She had felt nothing as she plunged the knife. A smirk had found its way on her face and adrenaline rushed through her bones and tingled her spine as spurts of blood escaped him. Her heart pounded and Widowmaker was born into completion then and there, successfully completely her first mission without a hitch.

(That is what she tells herself everyday about what happened that day, whenever she sees his ghost, whenever she starts think otherwise)

But she remembers. It is a memory she buried deep, but it is still there none-the-less. She remembers the way Amelie screamed and screamed inside her to stop. The tears on her face (their face). Begging her to stop killing her Gerard. Their Gerard.

Her, Gerard.

(She used to be so confident about it. Now she isn’t so sure how separate her and Amelie is anymore)

A silence permeates the room, swathing and thick and choking. Uncomfortable from the sour truth that hangs from her words and the very real possibility of it.

Fareeha is a good woman, and Widowmaker admits quietly in her heart that she has a soft spot for her savior. So she cannot let this slide. She just cannot help but feel like something had happened to her already and finds it slightly suspect that Fareeha escaped Maximilian's clutches in the first place. The omnic was a careful one. So perhaps there was more going on then meets the eye. Maybe letting them go was part of the plan.

Like with her that time.

Or maybe not. That facility is rather old. Maybe she did break free of her chains completely from her own volition.

But should they really take the chance?

“…Widowmaker is right.” Fareeha says softly, breaking the thick silence. She turns to Winston. “Winston, put me and Widowmaker in quarantine. Do not let either of us go until you have ran every conceivable test to ensure that we are not a threat.”

In the background, a silent Angela looks absolutely stricken.

Widowmaker wonders if Angela is suffering a flashback of Genji, of Amelie, of her inability to save either of them from themselves and the bloodshed that came with those failures. Wondering over and over again, how she had messed up. How she had missed the signs.

And if she had missed something, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are still enjoying this.  
> The end is soon (aka: I’m going to finish this in the next chapter or the next next chapter, I guarantee)


	7. Quarantine

The floor beneath her feet is cold. Decadent marbled floors cut from solid chunks of stone refined in some long-gone workshop that once received paid orders by the dozen from French royalty. It must have cost her ancestors a fortune to tile the grand bedrooms and all the other private quarters with this old marble cut by the masters from that esteemed workshop.

Lucky her.

Widowmaker traipsed along her room, dancing with the lights downturned to a tune that she hears softly hum in her head. Moonlight shines through the large windows of her balcony doors, illuminating her impromptu stage with an ethereal glow. For the moment, Widowmaker forgets her troubles. She does a pirouette and kicks her legs high into air she takes a leap, extending her legs into a grand split and lands gently on the tiled ground below. The motion pulls at her stitches and agitate her bruises, but for the life of her she does not care. Her eyes shut. Widowmaker throws caution into the wind and continues to dance. Her hands raise and stretch, fingertips to the horizon. A leg lifts off the ground and she rises to the tip of her other foot’s toes.

She grins, adrenaline thrumming in her veins and elation bursting in her heart.

She does another pirouette and chooses to forget that this love of dance is not her own.

Not exactly.

The violins of Ludwig Minkus play inside her skull and Widowmaker feels the vibrations of the strings tickle against her ear each time they are plucked. Her body moves in accordance to muscle memory; sets and motions ingrained by years of practice, from flurrying quick to infuriatingly slow, in time with the symphony that plays on and on behind her closed eyelids. Her breath quickens. Her arms stretch until her joints ache. Widowmaker does one final combination.

She finishes with a bow.

Sweat drips from her brow to the floor. She slowly rises, unfurling her spine to stand straight, shoulders dropped and head held up high, elongating her neck and frame. She opens her eyes and is greeted with the sight of the french doors to her balcony, view to the world obscured by haphazardly drilled grilled bars that barricade the door.

The image brings her back to reality.

Widowmaker may be home, but she wasn't home-free.

For the past week and who knows how longer, she is under quarantine. Unable to do something as small as take a trip down the hall without a watchful guard dutifully accompanying her. Widowmaker takes a long breath, wipes the sweat of her face with a palm and fixes her silk kimono, the fabric luxurious on her fractured skin.

She needed a drink. Badly.

Widowmaker swivels on a pointed toe and glides back to her bedside table. A hand rises to pull at her hair tie, freeing her long locks as the other gathers it all back. She brings both hands up and ties her hair into a haphazard bun that sits near the top of her head. It bobs with every step she takes. She tightens it.

There.

She delicately picks up the wine bottle by the neck and pours the dark red liquid within into an awaiting wine glass. She fills it half-way, pauses then fills it a little more, up two three quarters full before shoving the wine bottle back into the cooler. The bottle crushes granules of ice. Widowmaker wipes the condensation that collected on her fingertips on the side of the table before picking up the wine glass. The liquid inside sways.

With a careful hand balancing her wine, Widowmaker moves to go to bed.

The bed dips underneath her weight and Widowmaker eases slowly under the sheets. Her kimono irritatingly loosens again as she slides her legs underneath the covers, the feel of thin cotton weighed by a thick duvet pleasant on her bare thighs. She nestles in, adjusting the propped up pillow behind her with a rough hand while the other keeps a gentle hold on the glass of her wine.

Widowmaker takes a sip – carefully, through the left side of her mouth. She has not forgotten that the upper half of her lip on the right side is gone, curled away and damaged beyond repair. A permanent baring of her teeth now mars her face. It will be harder to take a trip to the French Riviera and waltz around freely when she is finally cleared from quarantine. People are surely to ogle at her.

And not from an outstanding display of beauty on her part.

(The thought of people judging her makes her stomach curdle)

She scrunches her face as she swishes the liquid in her mouth, sucking air between clenched teeth as a last ditch effort to aerate the wine before swallowing. She cringes none-the-less as the liquid burns down her throat.

Not good. That was her mistake.

Widowmaker swirls the glass, letting the wine aerate properly. As she waits for the fermented grapes to oxidize her mind wanders to a woman with blank ink and metal parts. She wonders how Fareeha is faring. She hasn’t seen a glimpse of the woman since they entered quarantine. Winston thought it better to have two possible sleepers not have any communication.

She agreed with the ape. It is better this way.

Maximilian’s methods were unorthodox, turning man into machine while trying to retain their aptitude in fighting. He had stripped the flesh from many sections of Fareeha, succeeding in converting whole chunks of her to steel and wires and circuitry.

The only question is whether he succeeded in altering the wirings in her brain.

And in hers as well.

Maximilian would never let something like differences in thought get in the way of what he believes is right. He is a selfish and power-hungry omnic who thought little of others, especially the opinions of humans. If he felt his methods were better, it would not be beneath him to go behind Dr. Brown’s back to ‘do a better job’. It was always rather peculiar to Widowmaker that Maximilian is part of Talon for this reason, considering that Akande and him were diametrically opposed. Then again, their methods did align. Both wanted a Worldwide Third Omnic Crisis.

Akande believes one will make humans stronger than ever.

Show their dominion over all else.

Maximilian thinks that a third one would finish what the other two started.

The wipeout of humanity.

Two sides of the same coin she supposed, wanting the same thing albeit for opposing endgames.

(And perhaps it is fun to them, to see which one of them turns out right ultimately in the end)

She swirls her glass one last time then takes a sip. Her eyes flutter shut for a second and she nods. A full-bodied with fine notes of black cherry and plum properly aerated is a taste to behold. The wine went down smooth, barely any tannin to sour the travel. A merlot finely aged in thick oak barrels.

Perfection, in her opinion.

She stares into the deep red of her wine, gazing at her murky reflection staring right back. There was another reason they haven’t seen each other, her and Fareeha – other than Winston’s valid concerns. The truth is that Maximilian, for whatever reason, did not mess with her brain or any part of her. Overwatch Research had not found one single shred of metal inside her body after multiple screenings through machines with names she could not even begin to pronounce. As such, they found her to be completely free of any possibility of his control, though not from kindness she is sure. Perhaps he was too entranced with making Fareeha into his perfect subject to even think of taking another. She was after all, in his words, the perfect candidate for his experiment.

She takes another sip of her wine.

So now, for the past three days, she was constantly prodded by Overwatch Medical and their psychology division while Fareeha was most likely picked apart by Overwatch Research. Both of them moved from one prison to another, though this time it was of their own volition.

Widowmaker sighs.

She almost regrets her suggestion to put both of them into lockup.

Almost.

She does though, wonder when all this will be done and she will finally be free.

She downs the rest of the wine and sets the empty glass back on her bedside. Her fingers flick the light switches off and pushes the button to draw the mechanical curtains closed. Widowmaker pushes herself into her sheets, bringing her propped up pillow down with her to rest her head on. She lies on her side, staring into the darkness around. She grimaces as she swears the bed dips behind her and feels the traitorous anticipation rising in her gut, her disloyal mind anxiously awaiting a heavy arm that will never come to drape over her. She grits her teeth and wriggles to the middle of the bed, attempting to squash the feeling and banish the ghost she is surely imagining by taking up the whole space. Despite her best efforts the feeling lingers, as close as the breath that leaves her.

Widowmaker wonders now if she will ever taste true freedom, the shackles of the past unrelenting.

She huffs.

There was a reason she tended to sleep in the library, on the extra bed she purchased only big enough for one, since buying the estate back.

\-----------------------------

The door to the medical ward hisses open. Her guard gestures inside.

“Get in.”

The words are thrown at her and her mouth automatically thins. She walks in, not so much as acknowledging his presence staunchly as she enters. The only tell of her concealed rage were the ends of her heels, stabbing with enough force to crack the tile with every step she took. The smell of antiseptic and strong disinfectant fills her nose. Another day, another moment in the medical ward. She is sick of it. Angela better have asked her to come in here this time to tell her they were done with all this quarantine business.

It has been three weeks long enough.

She hoists herself up onto her usual medical examination table – the one at the far left corner of the room and waits for the tardy doctor. The door to the medical ward opens again. The woman that comes barreling through the door is not the woman she expects.

“Hey love! How’ve you been?”

Widowmaker shuts her eyes and represses a groan. When she opens them again, Tracer is still grinning ear-to-ear, the mop of brown hair on top of her head as messy as ever. The chipper woman is dressed casually, in jeans and a hoodie far too big, small hands covered completely by the long-reaching arms of the pullover.

“…Tracer.” She acknowledges reluctantly.

 “It’s been a while since we’ve met, huh? Bet ya missed me.”

“ _Non._ ”

Tracer blows a raspberry at her for her snippy response, spit flying everywhere. Too far too reach her however. Widowmaker goes to inspecting her nails, avoiding doing as much as merely glancing at the childish woman, not wanting to give the woman an audience to churn out further displays of juvenileness. It is hard for her to believe that Tracer is more than a quarter century old. She acted fifteen, perhaps eighteen on a good day – and that was if (and only if) Widowmaker was feeling generous. She does not understand how Amelie had found her behavior cute or as far as somewhat charming in a way, inclined to ruffle her hair anytime the younger woman so much as puffed her cheeks.

She only wanted the woman to simply turn away and stop acting like she knew her.

“How ‘bout you, Javier? How’re you?”

Javier?

“Hey Lena. I’m good.” Her guard says and finally Widowmaker has a name to tack onto the irritating presence that has been following her around ever since she came back. Another inconvenience that has wormed itself into her life, like the other two ghosts that reside right behind her eyelids. At least this one she could punch (and she did, twice, before Angela threatened her with no nonsense eyes to behave or there would be consequences).

Widowmaker believed the irate woman when she said she would deliver on her promise. Angela has become twitchier as of late. Quick to temper. A hair-trigger temper that puts Gabriel Reyes as he is now, a wraith only fueled by rage, to shame.

And unfailing to go through with her word.

Pissing Angela of right now is a stupid move, and Widowmaker is not a stupid woman. She knew how to play the game.

Angela has not breathed a word about it, but Widowmaker is confident that her newfound mood must be due to Fareeha and the fact that she too is still under quarantine. Angela exhibited all the signs of a state of duress born from love. Something that she was keenly familiar with and could spot a mile away. Has used such a state to her advantage plenty times on the battlefield, coaxing her victims out into the open by delivering well-placed shots to their beloveds to lure them out of hiding.

She always made sure not to miss.

Missing meant leaving her targets very much alive with a burning fire to settle a score. A very personal one.

They’d chase her to the deepest parts of hell without a single thought.

So she never failed –

The image of a woman with a Horus tattoo under the wrong eye floats into her mind.

– Well, except once.

“You’re still here?” She breathes out dryly at Javier, hiding none of her displeasure. She brandishes a hand and makes a carelessly executed shooing motion, as dismissive as can be. “Run along now. Wait outside like a good boy.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

She cocks her head.

“Is that right? I swear Dr. Ziegler specifically told you not to agitate me. And your presence?” She smiles mockingly, no warmth in her irises, teeth like razors. “Absolutely aggravating. So what now, _Javier_? Are you going to stay here and implicate to the world that you are… incompetent?”

He huffs, nostrils flaring from the way she sounds off his name, belittling him like a child. Anger boiling within from her strikes against his integrity and capability. His hands curling into fists that barely contain his rage, the downturn of his lips obvious even through his grizzly mustache and beard. He somehow controls himself, swiftly turning to leave the medical ward without incident, banging the door shut on the way out. Her smirk widens and a sordid kind of pleasure envelopes her.

“Why’d you have to go and be like that?”

She sucks in a breath, remembering that Tracer is still here. She licks her lips and answers.

“I do not like him.”

The man is constantly there, invading her privacy. She couldn’t even take a piss without his knowledge, the middle-aged fool unfailingly standing at the foot of the door each time she did, probably getting off to hearing the tinkle of her urine through the slim crack between the door and the tiled floor (she knows this is simply her aggravation speaking and he probably didn’t, but she cannot help it – she is done with being treated like an invalid who needed constant surveillance). Talon at their most vigilant never put her through such security measures.

Tracer takes a seat on the medical table adjacent to hers, and swings her legs. She stares at her with a pout.

“Oh c’mon, he’s not that bad… What did he ever do to deserve all this?”

Widowmaker clicks her tongue and shrugs with arms crossed, pointedly avoiding Tracer’s doe eyes. She focuses her attention instead on an unattended machine two meters away, chemicals bubbling in vials attached across the middle of the machine. Bubbling slowly, liquids dyed in yellow and blue. Similar to the stuff that beams out of Mercy’s staff.

“He exists.” She states and rakes her tongue across her teeth. “I do not like his face.”

She abhors the way he looks at her. Glazed eyes with no life in them. He regards her the way a person regards a pest, unapologetically flippant of her and any notion of possible worth in her. Fareeha herself had never stared at her like that – not even in the beginning. There was always a spark in her dead gazes as they trained on her, a temper of caution and a begrudging respect at her skills.

In Javier there is simply nothing.

She feels like she is some sort of useless object he was forced into handling and he did so with a huff and groan because it was his job. With him, she feels like she is nothing more than like the Talon experiment she is. The prisoner she was.

Scratch that.

The prisoner she continues to be, unable to go anywhere without someone tailing her at every step.

(She hates it)

(She hates feeling this way)

Widowmaker scratches at her scalp, at the bald patch which pulled her hairline a little further back. She needs to get out of here soon or she will go crazy.

“You don’t like his face?” Tracer squeaks out in her shrill voice, cutting through her deepening thoughts. Tracer scoffs, legs swinging harder, rocking her sitting frame. “That’s the worst reason I ever heard come out of someone’s mouth for hating a person.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because Javier is a pretty decent lad!” She retorts, a frown pulling at her face. Widowmaker thinks this is the first time she has seen Tracer direct so much as an admonishing gaze in her direction since she joined. The last time she has witnessed such a look from the woman was right after she put a bullet between Mondatta’s eyes. “So quit being so mean to the poor guy. He deserves better than for you to hate him just because you don’t like his face.”

“Oh? Are you angry?” She jabs with a saccharine sweet smile that drips with condescension. Her walls rise up again and her mouth spits acid. “I thought you adored how… catty, I can be.”

If there is one trait she and Amelie shares, one that she is willing to admit too anyways, is that they both could be a bit of a bitch.

Amelie was born as the daughter of a couple from high society. She may have been graceful, charming, poised and full of etiquette, but she also held hints of the arrogance that comes with being from the higher echelons of French society. A dislike for mediocrity, an inability to comprehend the troubles of people tight with money, and a penchant for playing the game that many politicians and other esteemed figures loved to play.

Her favorite pastime other than Ballet was lovingly crafting carefully chosen remarks to make a person react just as she wanted them too. Blushing. Smiling. Laughing. Sighing. Reddening – from humiliation and anger to being completely and utterly flattered. It did not matter as long as she was the cause. It was fun to her. Amelie was a mischievous upper-class woman who loved to tease, loved to see people react, and relished anytime a challenger rose and refreshingly kept up.

It was a large reason why she had fallen for Gerard. The man too, had a way with words – amongst other desirable traits.

“Yeah, you could be judgmental, a little high-strung… Never like this though, not actually mean-spirited. I don’t get why you’re like this.” Tracer mumbles out before her voice drops into a whisper, coming out muffled as she pulls the front of her hoodie up to half-cover her mouth. “Not even Gerard would be okay with this.”

Her nostrils flare.

How dare she-

Using _Gerard_?

“What do you know?” She snarls out and it comes out pathetically warbled and far too tight. She remembers Gerard’s tender eyes as he stared at her. At Widowmaker as he took his dying breaths. At her as she is now. The love that persisted even with what she became. The way he wiped at her tears, stroking her wet cheeks. She takes a breath to calm her trembling and control her ragged breaths, visions of that night flashing in her mind. “You don’t know _anything_ about him.”

Tracer stares at her with sad puppy eyes, regret in her light brown eyes. She combs a hand through her hair.

Her mouth opens to speak.

Whatever wretched excuse of an apology was about to escape her is stopped short of assuming form, the moment between them is interrupted by the creaking opening of the doors to the medical bay. In comes Angela, clutching a clipboard to her chest. She observes them with silent inquiry on her face.

“…What’s going on?”

Tracer scrambles off the examination table she had been perched upon.

“I was just-”

She cuts her off.

“Nothing.” She delivers Tracer a quick sharp look before settling back onto Angela, eyes beseeching the woman to drop it. “You interrupted nothing.”

Angela looks between the two of them and chews her bottom lip, eyes more world-weary seeming than ever before. She lets out a long and tired sigh that grips at her shoulders and causes the exhausted woman to hunch.

“Lena… Could you please give me and Widowmaker a moment?”

Tracer shoves her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie and nods. She shuffles to the door, feet dragging, giving a mumbled goodbye to Angela as she passes her. Before she fully leaves the premises, Tracer pauses to cast a look over her shoulder and stares straight at Widowmaker, sorrow in her eyes. With pursed lips she salutes her goodbye with two fingers then immediately leaves.

Widowmaker breathes out a sigh of relief.

“…Anyways, Widowmaker. Your results.” Angela holds up the clipboard and waves it around as she approaches her. “I have it all here. I’ve went over this document many times and I’m happy to announce that you’re in the clear.”

“I am cleared?”

Angela takes a seat in front of her and hands it too her – the clipboard with her results.

“Yes. Quarantine is finished. We have assessed that there is no chance you are a sleeper agent.”

“Then I am free to go?”

“Not quite.”

Widowmaker’s mouth thins.

Of course.

There’s always a catch isn’t there?

“House arrest for at least a month and a half for recuperation and as added pre-caution.” She says aptly. Narrowed eyes travel up and down her frame, undoubtedly engaging in a quick scan of all the bruises and stitches and scars that riddle her body.  Assessing the damage and what still needed tending to. Her eyes snap back to hers. “Do not fight me on this.”

“No guards at least.” She barters, picking a fight she may win. “They are no longer necessary since I am not deemed a possible threat any longer.”

“That we can do.” Angela responds with a nod. “No guards.”

Widowmaker rejoices inside at the small victory. She rises from the examination table and hands back the pile of results Angela had gifted her – most of it filled with complex jargon she barely understood. She is not a medical professional by any means and the thought of being one has never crossed her mind. All she needed to know she knew. She is free, relatively anyways.

“Then goodbye.”

Angela makes a warbled sound from the back of her throat. Widowmaker stills and cranes her neck, watching the woman with a small bit of intrigue. Her being cleared from quarantine should have lifted a great weight off the doctor’s shoulders, no longer burdened with the possibility that she would yet again have blood on her hands from not digging deep enough to spot a danger that lurked within a rescued comrade. However that seems to not be the case. Angela clutches at the clipboard, fingers trembling from the force as she looks nowhere, chewing her lip to oblivion, mind elsewhere.

Well, she knows where.

Widowmaker grumbles.

A part of her does not want to ask, understanding that it will cause the woman to unload on her and she isn’t a fan of being a shoulder to cry on (learning someone’s secrets and being that person they divulge things while sobbing are two vastly different things in her experience), however the other part of her is curious.

She too, wanted to know how the woman is doing.

“Fareeha will be in quarantine much longer?”

Her statement catches Angela’s attention. She meets Widowmaker’s eyes and for the moment, stops chewing her bottom lip. She wets her lips and Widowmaker braces herself for the inevitable torrent of words that were about to flood out.

“It’s…” Angela takes a shuddering breath and places her fingers on her mouth. “It’s not good.”

It has apparently been an arduous process, collecting data on Fareeha, many parts of her metal and plating and each and every one of them needing to be analyzed for hidden functions not obvious to the eye. It caused many sleepless nights to Winston and his gang of researchers, but overall nothing to be worked up about. Tasking, but not difficult by any means.

Except the discovery of the metal in her cranium.

Overwatch’s research division had found stitches, one near her hairline and another at the base of her neck, and their hearts had dropped at the sight of them. One probe and a few scans later unveiled metal linings in her brain, fused and strung together in an intricate manner.

With two microchips embedded in them.

They had yet to figure out how to replace these parts without causing lasting damage, yet they had no choice. They couldn’t very well let those parts stay in her brain. They may not know what those chips did, but nobody wanted to find out. It wouldn’t be good.

Widowmaker listens to Angela, who sobs softly as she speaks, tears streaming down her face.

She should feel sadness, empathy. And she does, in a strange way. Not wanting to hear more counted as sympathy if she isn’t wrong, there were people who felt second-hand turmoil from hearing stories after all. However, her empathy and sadness is all for Fareeha though. For the woman who saved her and now deals with the aftermath the very same way she did – albeit harsher. When she observes Angela, Widowmaker feels nothing of that sort. There is something puzzling about the way she speaks about this matter, like it is heard of knowledge.

Like Angela was receiving reports about it rather than…

Her eyes widen.

 _Impossible_.

“Have you not met her?”

It sounds ludicrous as it leaves her lips, her statement, but she cannot help it. However, when Angela stops sobbing to stares up at her, face contorted with pain and eyes shining and threatening to break into tears once more, she realizes otherwise. Disgust builds up in her.

“I-… I can’t. She might… because I see her- I mean…” Angela trails off. She shakes her head and wipes at stray tears. “I’m the doctor who’s going to save her when we find the method. To take out those chips. I can’t be there any other time or she will develop-… Because I-… Don’t you see?”

“… Right.” Widowmaker says airily, comprehending the stilted words clear as day. She turns to walk away. “I’m bored now. Goodbye.”

“B-bored? What? Widowmaker!”

Widowmaker continues walking and ignoring Angela’s choking cries, leaving the medical ward and the red-nosed woman swiftly, wondering all the while how someone so brilliant could be such a fool.

\-----------------------------

She finds Fareeha another two weeks or so, sitting on a stone bench pressed up to the wall in the open air.

“You’re out.”

Fareeha notices her. She nods.

“Widowmaker.” She states in lieu of a proper greeting and Widowmaker cannot help the strange roil in her gut at hearing the mechanical intonation that layers her voice. She hears a faint whir and the snapping of metal. She realizes that Fareeha is cracking her new metal digits. “You look good.”

She gives Fareeha a slow once-over as she strolls closer.

“So do you.”

She meant it. Fareeha appears whole now. No exposed circuitry or wiry frames able to be seen by the naked eye, cybernetic limbs polished and refurbished. A slew of superficial details added probably to make the woman feel more home – the metal arm and legs she now possessed reminiscent of the original bulk and mass she had on her original limbs, the color of the metal painted a glossy blue (her favorite color) that appeared wet if it caught sunlight at the right angle… How much did that cost?

The change from a bright violet eye to a golden one was surprising though – she didn’t think Fareeha wanted any addition that may make people think about her mother instead of her, the person who stood in front of them.

She tells Fareeha that much. The woman shrugs.

“It’s less monstrous than a violet eye. Won’t scare little children. Far more human in a way.”

“It still glows, chaton.”

Fareeha’s lips curl at the corners and Widowmaker is surprised by how pliable her new lower jaw is, at the way the metal lips curve in sync perfectly with her organic upper lip. The half-bionic woman points a finger to her cybernetic eye then points two of her fingers straight at her, training them in front of her eyes.

“Are you really one to talk badly about glowing golden eyes?”

Widowmaker frowns. Fareeha’s delivery is as flat as ever, lilting a little only at the end. The by-product of a lower register from her new voice box does not help. She does not know if Fareeha is joking or not. Whether she is truly making a jab at her, softening the blow with smidgen of playfulness, or simply being playful. Fareeha chuckles, unperturbed by her lack of reaction (it is then that Widowmaker decides that it had been only a harmless joke) and starts to cracks her fingers again. They both lean their heads back on the stone wall behind them and look up at the clear blue sky.

“Thank you by the way. For suggesting quarantine.” Fareeha rumbles out, gaze still trained up at the sky. “I’m sure you heard about the problem in my head... I don’t know what I’d do if I hurt Angela.”

You’d be like me, she thinks.

Or Amelie.

Ugh. Whatever. Widowmaker picks at her shirt and huffs. She isn’t so sure who is who, who is she, or what she is exactly, anymore. And she found it best to stop thinking about it right now. Thinking about it too long made her head hurt and her head is sensitive at the moment from all the medicines she’s still on.

“I told you there is more to you.”

Widowmaker purses her lips. This is not a conversation she wanted to have right now. Fareeha’s hands are still fidgeting, cracking digits as she stares at her expectantly. Perfect. She points down at the busy hands.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

The woman is not stressed, and the number of times she has cracked them is a bit excessive now.

Fareeha looks down at her hands, splaying them up at herself. She twiddles her fingers, a hint of a smile on her face and adoration and admiration blooming in her good eye. The mechanical one dilates and within it a semblance of the same stirring unveils itself.

Widowmaker is impressed by the sight. Overwatch Research had outdone themselves there.

“I can feel them. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt my limbs. Maximilian didn’t find it necessary to give me any sort of feeling in my new appendages. And now with these… I do once more.” Warmth coats her simply said words, washing over them with unrestrained fondness. “It should’ve taken months to receive such tactile and specially tailored prosthetics, but Angela pulled a few favors.” She smiles unabashedly at Widowmaker, as bright as the sun itself. “Lucky me, huh?”

Widowmaker fails to indulge in any sort of second-hand happiness.

“You are not mad at all that she never visited you?”

“Oh you heard about that?” Fareeha questions then shrugs. She looks away again and scratches at her cheek with three fingers, grazing at her tattoo. “Angela was afraid. She may have not been the one to fit me with these new prosthetics, but she was the one to take care of the issue in my cranium. It’s reasonable for her, in her shoes considering her personality, to be afraid of visiting me during recuperation. Thought it would be taking advantage of the situation.”

“What a silly reason. It would have made no difference for her to visit you.” She mutters out, unable to not dish out her two cents on the matter for reasons unknown to her. “You are already in love with her.”

Fareeha breathes out sharply out of her nostrils.

She imagines that Fareeha is grinning on the inside despite the composure that is written on her face.

“Well that’s true.” Fareeha relents, hunching over on herself, head bowing. She scratches at her nose with a metal thumb and lets out a small chuckle. “Very true, actually.”

Widowmaker crosses her arms and legs and waits for Fareeha to continue. The woman lifts up her head, elbows still resting on bent knees, and gets to cracking her fingers once more. Her lips purse, repressing a tickled smile as she stares ahead – at the statue of Ares in the middle of the courtyard. She licks her lips and thins her mouth back to a flat line.

“But-” Gravity enters Fareeha’s tone, bringing her voice down a register. Her eyes train on hers. Intense and serious, leaving no room for rebuttal. “It would have made a difference to her and that is all that matters. I’d rather she didn’t visit me at all then have her have an inkling of doubt and guilt when we get together that continues to persist because of this point in time.” She corrects herself. “If we do, that is.”

“How foolish.”

Levity enters Fareeha once more, present in the air around her than any large showing of an easy-going smile. Her lips for the most part continue to stay flat, though they tug at the corners. A hint of a smile spotted if one stared hard enough.

“What can I say? I’m a fool in love.”

An asinine remark was about to leave her lips for that disgusting pun. Fortunately for Fareeha, she decides to change the topic before her mind conjures one up. She juts her chin forward, metal glinting under the hot sun. Widowmaker looks at where she points.

“Ares, huh? Goddess of Discord?”

“You do not like?”

Fareeha purses her lips and raises her brows, staring at her like the answer is obvious.

“Discord? Not really.” She cocks her head, considering something in her head. “…I prefer Nike.” She finally says. “Goddess of Victory. Yeah.”

Widowmaker hums. It isn’t a bad choice.

“Your opinion does not matter.” She says instead though, revealing none of her inner thoughts, her agreeance on the matter. “This isn’t your house.”

Fareeha’s eyes crinkle.

“Fair enough.”

Again, Widowmaker feels that lightness. It feels strange for it to be directed at her.

She finds that she does not hate it.

Another silence envelopes them soon after. Widowmaker fans at her face and shifts to press further into the cool of the stone wall, moving further into the shade. The weather is getting hot, nearing noon. The bugs are out and the cicadas are screaming. Summer is upon them, breathing warm winds in their direction and leaving the skies clear and sunny until late in the night. It is hot, very hot, and yet beside her Fareeha has a glow about her.

“You seem far too happy considering the heat.”

“I like summer. Long days and short nights. Adventures to be had.” She cocks her head at her. “Don’t you?”

To many it is the most wonderful time of the year, and summers in Annecy especially magnificent. Many festivals arrive and set up in public spaces, from food to theatre to music... The list goes on and on, seemingly endless. The natural beauty of the world amplifies as well in June and July. The lake that surrounds her chateau glimmers and glitters at this time of year, flowers continue to vibrantly be in full bloom like they were in spring, and the people – oh the people. Women wear sweet summer dresses, men don trim polo shirts and children get mud on their knees while bearing large toothy smiles. Summer is an exuberant and jovial time for many.

However to her, summer signals the anniversary of Gerard’s death by her hand.

It no longer calls forth fond memories.

\-----------------------------

After she bids Fareeha farewell she goes to the library, locking the door behind her. She inspects every inch of the room, craning her spine forwards and backwards to not miss any detail, checking all corners of the room and respective blind spots. Once she is satisfied that there is no one hiding in her private space she moves to the bookshelf behind her computer desk. She pulls a slim photo frame, wedged between two books left to collect dust.

Books that have never been read, only purchased for the sake of looking rich.

Spines clean with no semblance of wear and tear.

A wistful sigh escapes her as she looks at her and Gerard’s wedding photo, held carefully in one hand. The other hand rises to brush a careful finger Gerard’s silhouette, paying special attention to the curve of his rounded jawline. Her gaze then settles on Amelie. On herself she supposed.

(On the woman in the frame she decides)

Widowmaker cannot think of a time she has ever replicated such a burst of happiness as the one displayed in this picture in recent times. She blinks back forming tears and shakes her head. His anniversary is coming soon.

She would visit this time.

She will visit on his anniversary and not even a day late.

Not like before, shivering in the cold snow in a petticoat, six months late.

\-----------------------------

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Angela didn’t shout the words at her. Her voice is at a polite register, soft and punctuated only by her thick accent. Her eyes tell a different story. They are stormy and cold, the ocean blue akin to the shards of glinting ice – reminiscent of that time she trained a gun at her and Fareeha when they escaped the catacombs of Paris. The anger she exhibits is not uncalled for.

Technically she is still under house arrest.

And here she is, trying to sneak out in the dead of night like a rebellious teenager.

But it is the day, and so she must go. She simply must. There were answers that she needed and a man who deserved a visit. He had believed in her, even when she herself did not. That counted for something.

“It is the anniversary of Gerard’s death.” Angela’s eyes flash and soften for a split second, conflict swarming the torrential baby blues. “I must go.”

Angela flounders.

“It-.. It’s dangerous.” She protests. “I can’t let you go running off on your own. You might run into trouble.”

It is a graveyard she is visiting. The most trouble she may run into are grave robbers. Perhaps grave robbers are dangerous to common folk, but she is an assassin for god’s sake. She can handle a few men with grubby fingers who loot the dead for profit. She tells Angela as much and frowns when the woman still rejects her desire to go out and see Gerard’s grave. She certainly didn’t expect for Angela to be so cold-hearted.

“I will go with her.”

They both turn at the new occupant in the room. Fareeha is standing by the door, hands in the pockets of sweatpants, wearing a black t-shirt with the HSI logo on the right breast pocket. The beads that adorn her face gone. The woman was probably heading to bed before she took a detour here, curious about the commotion.

Angela sputters.

“Absolutely not! You are both under house arrest, what part of that do you both not understand!? There will be no dilly-dallying off anywhere until it is over and you are both cleared.”

Fareeha places a palm to Angela’s cheek, cradling her face.

“Angela.” She says, a silent reproach in the way she says her name. “It is his anniversary.”

“N-no.” Angela protests feebly once more, but the fire has died from her eyes. “ _Fareehali_.”

“I promise we will come back.” Angela shatters further at that, and Widowmaker realizes it is not petty professional insolence that causes Angela to act the way she does. Fear has seized her heart that something will happen and she is trying to prevent it in the worst way possible. The woman is not afraid of grave robbers, she is afraid of another kidnapping attempt. Fareeha releases her hold on her cheek and raises three fingers up. “Three hours tops. Then we will be back. I promise.”

Angela and Fareeha discuss the matter further, in murmurs too soft for her eavesdrop upon. Five minutes later, when Angela’s shoulders sag, Widowmaker knows Fareeha has won. She silently thanks the woman. Only silently though, afraid anything she might say might make Angela change her mind.

“Fine.” Angela breathes out, not sounding fine at all. “But if you’re not back in three hours, and I mean three hours at maximum, then you are both under house arrest for the rest of the year.”

“Yes ma’am.” Fareeha agrees readily then walks to the car, opening the passenger door to slide into it. She motions at Widowmaker to get into the driver seat with a tilt of the head. “Well come on, hurry up and drive. I only got us three hours.”

Widowmaker nods and gets in.

She starts the engine and they both blast off into the night.

\-----------------------------

It takes them a while to find Gerard’s grave.

Graveyards were not meant be visited in the dead of night and they could not utilize the glow of their phones either in their search for his grave. The graveyard was officially closed, gates shut and barred (they had vaulted over the steel fence like a couple of teenage delinquents looking for a bit of fun). Illuminating any sort of light was out of the question. Yes it may have helped in their search, but it would have also beckoned the grave-keepers attention and get them both kicked out. She had suggested to Fareeha to simply knock a grave-keeper out if they were caught, itching to use a flashlight rather than continue to grope in the dark. Her suggestion had fallen on deaf ears for Fareeha’s only response was to give that hard look that spoke volumes louder than any vocalized statement could have.

Eventually, they do find it.

Gerard’s grave is simple. A grey slab of stone with an elegant trail.

Well-kept too.

She stares at the tombstone. The last time she was here it was snowing. She had swung by six months after in late November. She hadn’t come that time from a sudden change of heart or an overflowing desire to pay respects. Amelie had not found a way out that winter’s day, assuming control to run to his tombstone to cry.

No.

She had come because she had been in the area. At the time she had just finished a mission in Annecy and had time to spare. Out of a whim she had decided to go to his grave. Simply trying to understand where Gerard laid exactly in her heart and why his ghost will not leave her alone.

Today, the same question begs in her mind.

Same as before, she places a rose on his grave (plucked from the flowerbeds of the chateau) and prays for his safe passage. Not because his presence annoys her this time though, but for some stirring in her heart that might be close to love. A stirring that has always been present, and only recently stopped denying.

She rises. She feels Fareeha’s vigilant stare on her.

“Are you okay?”

Fareeha’s words carry in the silent of the night.

She isn’t.

She feels for Gerard, and yet she does not feel like she is her – Amelie, she means. However, she does not find herself to be a completely separate entity. The revolting time imprisoned and trapped in Dr. Brown’s clutches once more made her second-guess everything she had been so sure of before when it came to who she is now. She’s not Widowmaker, feeling alive only when she kills. She isn’t Amelie either, the French woman from the original Overwatch member’s memories. She’s a chimera of something in-between and she cannot understand what exactly that means.

Widowmaker cracks her neck.

“I don’t know who I am.” She softly confesses. She scuffs her shoes on the dirt. “Or what I am.”

“You are you.”

She breathes out from her nostrils, a heavy and aggravated sigh and stares tiredly at Fareeha for the non-response.

“But what does that mean?”

Who is she beyond Amelie, beyond Widowmaker, beyond her memories and the reason she came to be? The questions tumble out of her mouth. It is unfair to ask so much on Fareeha, to wish for the woman to somehow hold the answers that she so desperately seeks, but any answer might be better than the hollow she feels in her heart as of late.

Fareeha regards her silently. A deep and thoughtful look etched on her face.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell you who you are.” She says smoothly when she gathers her thoughts. She sidles closer to her and drops her head, tilting it down at Widowmaker. Slowly, unfurling like a flower, Fareeha smiles tenderly at Widowmaker – silver plate of a lower jaw curving appropriately. Her eyes are warm and they shine with tempered excitement. “But won’t it be great to find out?”

She swallows.

"....Perhaps."

_Yes._

Fareeha brightens further at her response and Widowmaker understands for the first time that it is not strength and her unflinching resolve that are Fareeha’s most powerful traits. It is compassion and a love for others. It is why she constantly emphasized that protecting the innocent rather than neutralizing the enemy as her mission in life.

“It won’t be a lonely road. I’ll be with you the whole way.” Fareeha says as she delivers a small squeeze to the top of her shoulder, a reassuring point of contact. “Let you have that chance you never got to find out who you are. I promise.”

She nods and pulls Fareeha closer by her shirt, meeting her half-way with a step forward. She drops her head onto the junction where Fareeha’s shoulder meets her neck. Her hand stays where it is, fisting her clothing and balling it up in her hands, not letting the woman go. Fareeha hugs her back with one arm, a stalwart wall of support, the way she holds her head held up high contrasting her hunched form as Widowmaker curls herself into the woman. Widowmaker nods and nods as she buries herself deeper in the woman’s embrace.

“I’d like that.” She whispers into the base of her neck, lips ghosting the metal diamond of a voice box. “I’d like that a lot.”

_Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrightio. Next chapter is should be the last chapter. 99% sure.  
> Not 100% sure because you shouldn't trust anyone - not even yourself.  
> (lol)


	8. Maker

It has been a long time since she has done this.

Walking out in the open without having a specific destination in mind, nor to scope out an area for the best vantage point. Lately all her bouts outside have been for missions. To engage in reconnaissance, to conduct overwatch to support a strike team, to do what she did best.

Sniping.

The moment her extended house-arrest courtesy of Dr. Ziegler ended, it was back into the fray.

Not one day of break.

It wasn't that she minded being thrusted back into action, snuffing out a few lives through the scope of her rifle (revelations or not about her identity – or rather, lack of solid grasp on it, the thrill of a kill is something she still very much enjoyed she finds). It was instead that she felt like she had been long overdue some time for herself outside, where she wasn’t busy setting up on top of building or in the window of a highrise, loading up her sniper rifle with the full intention of using it.

As luck would have it, that opportunity presented itself now.

It could not have come at a better time.

Autumn has struck and the November weather is pleasant, unlike the months in the season that precedes in the yearly calendar. Those warm summer months of clear skies and long days.

Summer had been...

Difficult.

(For more reasons other than being a painfully sunny reminder of Gerard’s death by her hand)

Summer brought blistering heat and with that, the custom to wear as little clothing as possible.

And so her imperfections laid bare for the world to see.

Every sparing glance in her direction in those three months felt like judgment casted upon her. She could feel their barely concealed stares. The way their eyes would trail the scars near her eyes and the off-color burns that line the side of her jaw for a little too long. The poorly concealed disgust at seeing the permanent rip of her lip and the pity that wallowed in their hearts from the obvious receding sections of her hairline from one to many abrasions.

Widowmaker does not need a vivid imagination to have a sharp awareness of the unpleasant cocktail of feelings that must have bubbled and churned in the guts of any passerby as they drank in the sight of her and the scars she could not hide due to the heat of a summer sun. Not without looking out of place or at least out of fashion, replacing her chic summer dress with the long sleeve tunics of women with far less style.

Neither of those things were acceptable to her.

Now, in sweet autumn, she could afford to hide her imperfections without causing suspicion.

A black medical mask over her ripped and curled mouth, a fashionable beret fitted neatly on her head and a trench coat to cover the length of her body and the scars that ran along her limbs. She feels embarrassed to be out and about no longer.

And perfectly keeping up with the season’s current style trends.

Widowmaker inhales deeply.

The black medical mask wrapped around half her face sucks in slightly from the intake.

The air is crisp and cool, refreshing in a particular fashion which only the fall could ever achieve. Around her, brittle drying leaves continually pluck themselves from twigs and the branches of trees, carpeting the cobbled stone pavements in orange and reds. A sea of leaves that crunch and snap beneath her with every step she took, at times impaled and holed by the heel of her suede boots.

Disintegrating with a touch.

The weather is nice, and the architecture that surround her in this old part of the town is magnificent and tastefully gothic. The open market that she is currently walking in the midst of is clean enough too, she decides. Fairly busy as well, and that Widowmaker finds slightly unusual considering that it is the weekday and past the hour of lunch.

Is there some new French holiday she has yet to become privy too?

She maneuvers leftwards a space or two to avoid running children, who giggle obliviously and scurry around her legs in that innocently selfish method children did. Bumping into her legs like they were but an afterthought, hitting the sides of her ankles and thighs as they pass, braising the length of her long coat and lifting the ends with the movement.

She shoves her hands into her pocket deeper and grumbles.

 _Little gnats_.

The thought did cross her mind to grant one of the annoyances a small bump on the head through a slight outward bend of an elbow as they filtered through, simply to witness the scrunching of naive eyes and the upward lift of tiny hands to rub at a sore spot that was sure to form near their temple. It is a sight that would have most likely been deliciously amusing. However, she is sure her companion would not let an act of transgression towards children slide. As minute of an act as it would have been.

So she had refrained from indulging on the fly-by whim.

Speaking of which (or whom she supposes), she looks at her companion with a wayward glance.

Fareeha stands tall and straight-backed, the black coach jacket she dons doing little to hide her daunting frame. Her gaze is set in ever the serious fashion, her shoulders are squared, and the metal half-jaw she now sports is proudly shown without a hint of shame.

She wonders how she does it.

The rip of her lip seems to tingle under her black medical mask from the confidence the woman beside her exudes so naturally. Fareeha always appeared assured. Even the way she walked seem deliberate and imbued with purpose, and all they were doing was browsing the open market.

A spot of envy flowers in Widowmaker.

Her presence may be quiet, but there is something domineering in the method in which Fareeha operates in the world. That forces people to subconsciously and consciously part for her as she makes her way forward through life. And through this market at current, and because of that, perhaps the stalwart and reserved nature she possesses that relents not a sliver during off-hours isn’t such a bad thing.

Widowmaker appreciates the breathing space and how nobody bothers them due to the disposition, in any case.

The smell of spiced pork links enter her nostrils as they pass a stall selling grilled sausages. Fareeha shifts and her trajectory changes, straight towards the stall. Widowmaker pulls out a hand from her pocket and reaches out, pinching the fabric of Fareeha’s coach jacket at the elbow with two fingers and a thumb to stop the woman in her tracks. She tugs at the sleeve gently.

“Non. Not for you.” She says, pulling Fareeha back to where she first stood on the opposite side of her. She levels eye-contact with the taller woman. “That stand sells andouilles. It’s a sausage made mostly of pork tripe.”

Fareeha does not groan, but her jaw does shift and her expression looks somewhat ruffled somehow by the petulant narrowing of her eyes. Her shoulders give, deflating slightly.

She seems morose.

“ _Haram._ ” She mumbles glumly, disappointment coloring her tone. “Why does every sausage stand here serve only pork?”

“Welcome to France, chaton.” Widowmaker remarks airily, answering the rhetoric question with a shrug. “Mostly Christian and Catholic rulers shaped my country’s history, and there is no qualms about eating pork in Christianity. Tell me, what did you expect?”

Fareeha grumbles.

“For sausages not made out of pork to exist as well.” She deadpans and the corner Widowmaker’s lips curve into an amused smile at how ruffled Fareeha was by the notion of no sausage options that didn’t involve pork. “Jewish people lived in France too, didn’t they?”

“And they were persecuted for much of that time.”

“… Right.”

Widowmaker walks ahead three steps towards a posted map of the layout of the open market. Her eyes run through the stalls until she finds what she is looking for.

She proceeds to go left.

“Come with me.” She says over her shoulder and beckons Fareeha like one did with a child when she realized Fareeha was not following. Fareeha is looking at her blankly, rooted at the spot. She rolls her eyes. “ _Come._ I am taking you to a merguez stall. Merguez is a spiced sausage made of mutton and beef.”

Fareeha perks up. Her shoulders lift and though her face is as stony as ever, the energy around her feels somehow renewed.

“You better not be lying.” Her brown eye gleams just as bright as her golden eye. There is a ghost of a grin etched on her face. “I am seriously _hungry_.”

At that moment Fareeha’s stomach growls as if to punctuate her words and Widowmaker cannot help the staccato joy that leaves her lips, muffled by the thin cloth of her medical mask, duly tickled by the passing moment. Fareeha on her part, has the lightest of blushes crossing her cheeks and her flat expression is refreshingly bashful from hearing the same rumbling of her own stomach.

Widowmaker composes herself after a second or two and then smirks.

“Come on. Follow me.”

And Fareeha quickly submits to her request.

\--------------------------

It isn’t heavy, the plastic bags that loop around her wrists.

And if anyone had the right to complain, it was not her but rather the woman who walks next to her, whose stomach is now satiated by a sausage made of a blend of spicy mutton and seasoned beef.

Fareeha is the one doing the heavy lifting after all.

So much so in fact, that she could not blame the stares and gawks that any passerby delivered to her taller companion and her current display of sub-human strength (and by that, she meant additional stares and gawks – people had been ogling at Fareeha since the start due to her half metal jaw and quietly foreboding presence).

The woman has somehow found a way to cradle three large paper bags filled to the brim with meat and vegetables in one arm, while her other hand bunches up the ends of two sacks of potatoes in a tight grip. Two sacks of potatoes that rests heavily on her back as she slings the bulk of them over her shoulder. Around her wrists lay six plastic bags, three around each wrist. And through the translucent white of the stretched plastic, Widowmaker sees the bright colors of ripe oranges, yellow bananas and other colorful fruits. Fruits that threaten to burst and pop out from how they bulge and push at the plastic.

She has to be carrying at least fifty kilograms worth of food.

At least.

One sack of potatoes was probably ten to fifteen she gathers from a quick glance at its size.

So her, armed with only two plastic bags filled with a few packaged snacks that mostly contained air strapped on either wrist, really shouldn’t complain. Her items are as light as a feather in comparison.

But she just could not wrap her head around it.

Once the relief of being able to step out into the world without shame wore off, once she was in a state of clarity again, once the novelty of walking around in anonymity-

She takes a quick glance at Fareeha and the attention she attracts.

-Relative anonymity, anyways, dissipated. She simply had to wonder how on earth, did she, get bamboozled into doing a grocery run on her time off?

She could have been sitting by the French canal, making herself comfortable on an ornamented white wooden chair that belonged to one of the many cafes that ran alongside the moving waters. Maybe purchase a double espresso made from mildly roasted coffee beans and a crepe suzette drizzled in Gran Marnier from one such cafe. They would have prepared the latter tableside for her and it would have made for the perfect accompaniment to the scenic view. Yet instead she is walking down an open market, engaging in menial labor for the benefit of the Overwatch members back at base.

The most peculiar part of the whole thing, is that she found that she wasn’t _completely_ detesting it.

(Who was she?)

“Maker. This way.”

Fareeha is talking to her in ever the flat tone, but she recognizes that it is _that_ flat tone. The easy one that Fareeha possessed that she had only very recently become privy too, become the recipient too, and perhaps one day, might just become accustomed too. One that the woman only used off-duty and in the company of close friends and close associates, where her tone turns understated and each syllable didn’t cut into one’s core in a frightful manner and command one’s full attention for fear of unspoken retribution. It was light and even somewhat playful in a delicate manner. Like the way she has the slightest of lilts at the ends of her sentences.

“Why? What’s there?”

She delivers the question dully with no humor in her tone, raising a perfectly arched brow. Just because she didn’t completely detest what they were doing, it didn’t mean she necessarily _enjoyed_ being a gofer for their colleagues.

“We have everything we were told to buy.” She clarifies when Fareeha does not answer. “Fareeha?”

Fareeha points to a stall in the distance in lieu of an answer, maintaining eye-contact with her all the while. Her mouth is still flat, but her eyes are wide and sparkle with unbridled interest. The combination as a whole reminds Widowmaker of a cat when it finds something it thinks it may want.

All that Fareeha is missing to complete the look is a flicking tail.

The many plastic bags in Fareeha’s possession simply dangle off her stretched arm like nothing and the sack of potatoes fares no better in weighing her down. It probably felt like nothing to her in actuality if she is to be perfectly truthful (she has seen Fareeha fling a car with her new bionic arms without a single grunt leaving her lips). Widowmaker shoves her hands deeper into her coat pockets, the plastic bags around her own wrists bunching up near the entrance to her pockets from her actions, and stares at where Fareeha gestures and points with a waving arm.

She squints.

Either Fareeha was pointing at the butcher shop, or she was directing them to the sweet stall right beside it.

She thinks she knows which one it must be.

“I want to try some candied apples.”

She knew it.

Fareeha starts walking immediately, not bothering to wait for any sort of response from her. Widowmaker trails after. When they get to the stall, Fareeha is immediately enthralled. A quiet breath leaves her lips, and Widowmaker cannot help the puff of breath that leaves her own at the sight, thoroughly amused by the wonder that emanates from her companion.

She leans on the side of the stall as Fareeha bends down, eyes shifting from one candied apple to the next. The woman was currently debating with an unseasonably high amount of concentration on whether she would get the caramel apple covered in crushed nuts, or the traditional bright red candied apple, if the way her focus moved from one to the other was any indication. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the way the shopkeeper seems slightly nervous. The smile on his face off and his hands fidgeting all the while, wrestling the apron that he has strapped on with vigor.

She is not surprised.

A metal half-jaw and golden glowing eyes on a person close to six feet tall and the musculature of a running back would make anyone sort of nervous, even if said person was acting like an overgrown child.

(It was a wonder to her that their unwilling taxi cab driver had not shat his pants – Fareeha had been grouchy that day, to say the least, a normal tone of behavior considering the days they had leading up to it)

Speaking of grouchy, she was becoming antsy. They have been at this stall for five minutes.

“Just get both, you buffoon.”

Fareeha’s eyes flicker off the freshly made confections to meet hers.

“You really think that?”

“Oui. You are a buffoon.”

“Not that part.” Fareeha grumbles out. Her eyes twinkle once more. “The other part.”

She nods.

“Oui.” She says again, softer this time though still as exasperated. She did not need to be a rocket scientist to see the desire that gleamed in Fareeha’s eyes for both the apples. “If not, then I know we will be here forever.”

Fareeha postulates, pretends that she isn’t going to go for her suggestion.

Widowmaker rolls her eyes.

Who did she think she was fooling?

“Well, alright… If you insist…” Fareeha drags out slowly, like it wasn’t her intention at all from the get-go to simply agree. “But if Angela gets mad…” Fareeha rises back up to her full height and nods, the grin that had been threatening to come out all this time finally making an appearance. There is a childlike glee resting in her eyes and Widowmaker feels a sort of mischievousness of her own spring forth from the catch. “I get to blame you.”

Widowmaker smirks.

“Oh, _chaton_. That’s all? And here I thought you were going to say something that would actually scare me.”

Fareeha chuckles under her breath at her remark.

“You shouldn’t underestimate Angela like that. She is a force to be reckoned with when she wants to be.”

Fareeha then kneels to drop the sack of potatoes momentarily so she could retrieve her wallet with a free hand. Fareeha fiddles with her wallet for a few seconds as she struggles to pull out a few dollars, and when she does, there is a bright victorious smile on her face. A bright smile that drops once Fareeha realizes that she couldn’t hold all her groceries, the sacks of potatoes and the two candy apples she just purchased all at the same time.

Widowmaker snickers under her breath.

“Oh dear.” Widowmaker crosses her arms and tilts her chin up at Fareeha tauntingly. “What will you do now, chaton? Does this mean no candied apples for you?”

Fareeha shifts and stares at her disgruntled.

A stare that soon becomes introspective. Widowmaker leans away, suddenly feeling the joy in her bones drop a few notches from the look. She does not like the look on Fareeha’s face.

“I have…” Fareeha begins and continues to stare at her meaningfully. “One... idea…”

The wind rustles and a silence runs too long between them for Widowmaker to enjoy. She does not like the look Fareeha is giving her at all now. She instinctively hunches in on herself, crosses her arms tighter, and narrows her eyes in preparation of whatever next is about to leave her mouth.

“Maker-”

“Non.” She says quickly, cutting her off. “Whatever it is. No.”

Fareeha’s jaw shuts. She purses her lips. Widowmaker believes for a few good seconds that Fareeha has relented when the woman opens her mouth and tries again. More urgency and force in her words.

“Maker. Just listen to me.”

Widowmaker holds a hand up and shushes her.

“Fareeha, I said whatever it is, _no_.”

“ _Maker_.”

They stare each other down. Fareeha looks so hopeful and her eyes seem to shake from the force in which she looks at Widowmaker. Something sparks in Widowmaker at the bug-eyed, wide-eyed, pleading stare, and to her ire it feels something too close to giving in. Widowmaker snarls and growls, cursing further as that hint of a victorious smile blooms on Fareeha face.

“ _Fine_.”

\--------------------------

She ends up holding the grocery bags so Fareeha could eat her candied apples. All three of the large paper bags. Hugging them in both arms and pressing it close to her chest for added security. She also has possession now over the plastic bags that Fareeha had looping over her wrists, and those additional plastic bags join the two that she originally had.

It was incredible to her that even this abhorrent inconvenience had already stemmed from compromise - Fareeha had tried, but there is no way in all the seven circles of hell was she going to carry the sacks of potatoes as well.

Besides, she does not think she possessed the strength in the first place to achieve such a feat.

Fareeha is smiling beside her, as chipper as can be, and Widowmaker thinks it is lucky that Fareeha had remembered her manners and thanked her for her troubles. Else she would have dropped all the groceries and shoved both those candied apples down Fareeha’s throat. Not everyone in the world had prosthetic arms and her arms are starting to ache from the weight of the bags.

“Thanks, Maker.” Fareeha sounds out after swallowing another bite of her apple. The two candied apples she holds in one hand are in various levels of disarray. The woman has been alternating bites between the two of them. She offers a hand to her – the one that grasps both of the candied apples. “You sure you don’t want to try some?”

“Non.” She hisses out and bounces the grocery bags in her arms as she feels one slip, momentarily lifting a knee to stop its descent until she found her grip once more. “I am fine.”

Fareeha makes a noise then shrugs.

“Okay.”

They continue to walk through the open market. It is now later in the afternoon, a little after four, but the market still buzzes with life. Bartering and laughter to the whispered exchanges of private conversations continue to liven up the cobbled streets and shaded stalls. She feels a hand lightly touch her shoulder and she turns to find that Fareeha has finished both of her apples and is extending an arm to retake the grocery bags from her possession.

She lets Fareeha take two, but keeps one on her.

Fareeha’s brows raise accordingly in surprise from her actions. Widowmaker licks her lips.

“What?” She questions, a little too harshly to be casual as she starts to handover the plastic bags in her possession back to Fareeha in an effort to appear nonplussed. “Speak.”

Fareeha blinks.

“… It’s nothing.” She finally says after a long time and then delivers a small bow. “Thanks, Maker.”

Complete silence envelopes them soon after and Widowmaker is glad that Fareeha withheld any further comment about her sudden compassionate whim.

Her cheeks are burning enough as it is from the impulsive action.

\--------------------------

They are in front of the chateau, her punching in the code to unlock the steel gates, the groceries she had on hand placed by her feet, when Fareeha decides to ruin her day.

“Oh.”

“What?” She asks as she finishes punching in the code and picks up her groceries.

The steel gates groan and whine at the hinges as they pull open. She makes a note to oil them at some point (and by that, she meant, get one of the young recruits to do it). It is only a blip of a thought however, for she is now more preoccupied by the sheepish look on Fareeha’s face.

“What?” She repeats more harshly. Her eyes narrow and flash as Fareeha keeps mum, like she was deliberating as to if she really wanted to say what was on her mind. “Out with it.”

“Remember when you carried all three grocery bags when I was eating the candied apples.”

“Oui.”

How could she forget? It happened not even an hour ago and her arms were still somewhat sore.

“….”

She quirks a brow.

“What, chaton?”

Fareeha shifts from foot to foot and her eyes flicker up to the sky in an innocent fashion, before it drops back down to her. She moves forward and takes the grocery bag Widowmaker had kept after the fact back into her arms, along with the two plastic bags around her wrists. Widowmaker watches her with confused intrigue.

“What are you doing?”

Fareeha grunts. “Pre-emptive plan to soften your anger.”

“…And why would I be angry?”

Fareeha pursed her lips.

“Because I just realized…”

She bounces the grocery bags to get a firm grip and to stall for time. Widowmaker shakes her head at the sight. Fareeha looks ridiculous with three large paper bags of groceries, two sacks of potatoes slung over her shoulder and eight plastic bags looping around her wrists. As a sheepish smile broadens and pulls at her cheeks, Widowmaker suddenly understands Fareeha’s hesitance in having whatever thought she had come out into the open and be breathed into life.

She knows she will hate whatever leaves her mouth next.

She is hoping it isn’t going to be as terrible as the last idea she had come out of her mouth. Her arms, if she was to be perfectly truthful, now ached slightly from carrying all those groceries, despite how brief it was.

“There was no reason for you to carry all these things when I was eating the candied apples. We could’ve just sat on a nearby bench until I finished and then continued our shopping.”

A silence stretches between them and embarrassment sinks into Widowmaker at not making such a revelation herself.  Her mouth thins, she holds back a snarl and turns on her heels, striding into chateau with speed. Fareeha bumbles along behind her – she can hear the heavy thuds of her boots and the penetrating stare on her backside.

“Maker-”

She raises a hand up without turning.

“Fareeha.” She says flatly and chants a mantra in her head not to kill the woman behind her. She also takes the time to attempt to squash down the embarrassment she feels welling in her gut. “ _Ta gueule_.”

“… Tah gool? What does that mean?”

She opens the door and whips to face Fareeha.

“It means shut up.”

To her horror, Fareeha goes from blinking owlishly from surprise to looking like she was suppressing a laugh from the way her lips trembled. It is also in that moment that Widowmaker realizes that the warmth pooling at her cheeks must be more noticeable than she thought.

It is the only time she curses Angela Ziegler and her ability to heal.

Her blushes would have never shown on her purple and deadened skin. She would have not been embarrassed in the first place. And certainly, she would certainly not have to deal with _this_.

Fareeha. Tickled at _her_ expense.

“Maker.” Fareeha’s expression has been schooled neutral once more, but she can hear the lopsided smile simmering right beneath the surface. “You’re looking a little-”

“ _Fareeha_.”

She hisses out her name, eyes flashing, face burning. Her grip on the door handle turns knuckle white and the brass knob shakes from the force she exerts. Fareeha stares back with unblinking wide eyes, cocking her head in curiosity.

“Yes?”

“ _Ta. Gueule_.”

She then slams the door and tries to ignore the quiet chuckle she hears from the other side of the door that finds a way to float in, and the few words the incorrigible woman utters from behind the wood that sounds too close to an amused statement of how flustered Widowmaker was.

The next mission they had, perhaps she’ll take up Angela’s offer to have some bullets that heal put into her arsenal.

It would give her an excuse to shoot Fareeha in the ass.

\--------------------------

Weeks go by, the embarrassment passes and they are still in France.

The strong presence of Talon at present permits them to stay in her home country and Widowmaker find that she enjoys it. Being back home is nice when she isn’t forced to stay closed in the chateau against her will.

She is lying down on a couch that sits at the corner of the library-turned-study space. She sighs dreamily and thumbs and traces the old and weathered picture frame of Gerard - the very one she keeps in the library wedged between two books. The one with him and her on their wedding day. She presses the photo frame to her chest as she traces the designs etched onto the ceiling of the room with her eyes.

 _Their_ wedding day.

Hm.

She ponders it for a moment before she nods to herself. Yes. It is okay for her to call it their wedding day. She has decided it is okay. For in a way she is Amelie, though not completely.

(Amelie had never picked up a gun in her entire life, much less thought of pulling a trigger)

She closes her eyes, clutches the wooden frame in her hands tighter and remembers that day. The events of that day are seared into her mind. From the smells of white jasmine flowers that decorated the church to Gerard himself. Strapping and altogether striking in his black tuxedo, hair gelled back and the handsomest of smiles on his face.

She does not think she could forget it if she tried.

She knows in fact, she cannot, for the truth was that for the longest time, she did try to forget. And failed. Time and time again, no matter how desperate she was to banish all traces of him.

Back when Gerard and his memory was but a blight for her and her daily life.

However now…

Well.

That day was the happiest day of her life and she will selfishly keep it that way in her memories.

Even if she may not be Amelie Lacroix.

Not exactly.

Gerard will not mind. Of that she is sure.

Her smile slips slightly, before it comes back, softer than ever. A quiet laugh escapes her. She turns on the couch and rests on her side, holding the photo frame in slim hands still. She stares at Gerard’s visage and bites her lip.

This may be the first time she truly thought of him for a long period of time without heartache.

The memory was sweet, and with Gerard and his gentle smile and loving eyes in her mind, Widowmaker pushes off the couch and makes her way back to her private quarters. Further memories trail into the forefront of her mind.

The catholic priest. The exchange of vows. The night after.

Gerard, lying naked next to her, save for the rosary that dangled around his neck and the cross that rested right between his pecs. Hair cutely mussed and in disarray.

She stands in front of the large painting that stretches almost the whole length of one wall and pauses as she tries to remove it. The art piece is expensive and heavier than it seems.

She will need to be careful.

Widowmaker struggles for a moment, testing the waters, before setting the painting back down on the hooks it rested on. Not good. There was no way she could successfully pry the painting off the wall without damaging it along the process by herself. She takes a few steps back and presses a digit to her lips, assessing whether she should simply chance it for the sake of reaching the vault concealed behind it. Minutes tick by and she releases a weary sigh as she reaches the conclusion that she shouldn’t.

It would be a shame to ruin the family’s collection needlessly.

Widowmaker curses under her breath and turns to leave her room once more, intent to find a solution outside of its four walls. She pushes open the ivory doors to her bedroom by it polished gold handles. Perhaps there was a device in Winston’s makeshift research space that would be of use for her current predicament.

“Oh. Hello.”

Fareeha is standing there a couple meters away from her door, mid-walk across the hall space. Widowmaker’s brows raise and she considers this newly presented option.

Perhaps the answer was far closer than she thought.

Simply a couple meters outside her door, in the form of a woman close to six feet tall and a black ink udjat under her right eye.

\--------------------------

With Fareeha’s help the painting is easily taken off carefully from the metal hooks screwed onto the wall and set aside gently on another corner of the room momentarily. Widowmaker bends down on a knee as she works to unlock the vault.

“You can leave now.” She says without turning around. “Thank you for the help.”

“Don’t you need me to hang the painting back up?”

“… You have a point. Stay.”

Fareeha grunts in the background but makes no other comment after that.

With both hands, Widowmaker turns the wheel of the vault left and then right and then a combination of lefts and rights. A combination she ought to change, considering that their wedding anniversary makes a password that was probably far too easy to guess.

She hears an audible click when she finishes and Widowmaker slowly pulls the vault door open. Inside the safebox are only a few personal effects, none of which is money or worth much for any robber – save for her engagement ring. Other than that, there are only items of sentimental value. The original film of the photos they took on their wedding day, the first ticket he ever bought to watch her ballet performance, the first plane ticket she ever bought to visit him at an Overwatch base and other such trinkets of which its worth was only in the memories stirred.

Well, that wasn't the whole truth.

As Widowmaker, she had placed a few items inside as well as a last resort point of storage. Items she stored later, well after his passing, that didn't necessarily have any sentimental value.

Fake passports, identifications, a packet of rations.

Except one thing.

The only important thing she added to the vault after his death. She picks it up with a careful hand and inspects it, the rosary Gerard always had looped around his neck. The one that stayed on even on their wedding night.

She cannot recall a time where he had ever taken it off.

She had kept the rosary at first as a trophy, wrenching it off his stiffening corpse with a malicious sort of glee. As abhorrent as she finds that behavior to be now (it made her sick in the stomach that she ever thought of him in that sort of demeaning way) she is glad past Widowmaker had done so. She wipes the cross and the beads adorning the slim rope with a cloth then loops it over her neck.

The chain has a nice weight to it and the cross dangles comfortingly.

“I didn’t think you were the religious sort.”

Widowmaker lifts her head to find Fareeha standing beside her kneeling frame, staring at her with a faint undercurrent of curiosity staining her otherwise blank expression.

“I’m not. It is Gerard’s.”

She closes the vault and locks it with a spin of the metal wheel.

“… I see.”

She offers a hand to help Widowmaker stand. Widowmaker accepts the hand and allows Fareeha to pull her up gently, her steel digits cold to the touch to her now warm skin. As Fareeha guides her by the small of her back away from the area, she sees the way her eyes train right below her breasts, staring at the cross of her rosary with an introspective glaze. She waits for Fareeha to say something, but the woman does not. Instead she goes to the wall where the removed art-piece laid to pick it back up and rest it back on its hooks on the wall it is meant to be on, covering the vault from prying eyes once more. She takes her time as she does so, careful to not damage the painting in any way.

She appreciates the effort.

“Thank you, Fareeha.”

And thanks her for all of it.

Fareeha turns and her eyes crinkle. Her lips quirk in a hint of a smile and there is light therein.

“No problem, Maker.”

She goes to the door, hand grabbing at the handle. She turns the handlebar and pushes on the door, pausing for a moment before she leaves the premises completely. Over her shoulder, straight into her heart through a penetrating gaze that locks on her eyes, Fareeha speaks one final time.

“Keep it under your uniform when we go out on missions. That way you won’t lose it.”

Widowmaker swallows and nods.

“Oui.”

She grips the cross tightly in one hand.

She was intending to do so from the start.

\--------------------------

The rosary presses into her skin, right above her navel. It is neatly tucked away beneath her uniform, under the zipper line of her costume (and finally, she thinks, there is a legitimate reason for this addition to her overall look). The pressure from the beads that adorn the length of the chain and the metal slabs that make the cross is comforting on her skin.

It feels like Gerard is with her.

She reloads her sniper rifle and fires. She grins wildly as the shot lands right between someone’s eyes, shattering the silly visor they wore (she scoffs internally from the sight, as if something like that would ever protect them from her).

It is indeed, the wrong day for Talon to have been so brazen.

The wrong day for Talon to have conjured a plan to do an outright attack on a small city in the south of France, for today she felt _unstoppable_. Widowmaker lines up the scope of her rifle, watching yet another agent scramble through the wreckage. The outlines of red on these bumbling fools are strikingly clear in the lenses of her visor. Clearer still in the scope of her rifle. She fires, a clean pop of a sound, a hot shell casing ejecting from the chamber and sizzling as it hit the plaster floor below. Another body drops, crashing into a wall and bending in an awkward position as the life bleeds out of them.

Enemies further scatter from the hit.

That was eight.

She is on a roll. A roll that is not going to stop anytime soon.

Widowmaker is starting to reach that ultimate high. Her blood is pumping and her adrenaline is rushing, all the way to the tips of her fingers and up to the muscles of her cheeks. She cannot help the lascivious smirk that rests on her lipstick stained lips and the spark in her eye with every life she snuffs out.

She reloads her rifle. She lines up her rifle once more.

“One shot.”

She follows a running Talon agent and his comrade as they run for cover. A small red beam trains itself on the back of his head, right under his helmet and smack on his neckline. Right where his hair was neatly trimmed into a straight cut. At the center of it. Widowmaker slows her breathing and her finger itches to pull.

“One kill.”

She pulls the trigger and holds the sniper down to suppress the recoil. Blood spurts out from him, splattering onto the snow like stars in the night and there is not a sight more beautiful to her. The terror in his living comrade’s eyes is visible even at the mile away she is. Her smirk widens and bloodlust hazes through her.

By god, did she love the hunt.

She may be technically one of the “good guys” now, but it does not mean she enjoys the thrill of the kill no more. She lets out a dark chuckle at the man’s expense.

She was going to kill him soon.

Her earpiece crackles, a deadpan voice she knew so well hums into her eardrums.

“ _Maker_. _Focus._ ”

She rolls her eyes.

“I am, _chaton_.” She says mockingly and fires another shot. The frightened comrade goes down. Stupid fool had been looking the wrong way. How could she have possibly been hiding in that building? “Perfect _ten_.”

Fareeha grunts and through the chaos, Widowmaker hears the sailing of rockets. She looks up into the skies, trying to find the woman who was whispering in her ear with a growl, devoid of any shred of humor. She smirks as she spots her and the Omnic titan she currently is in battle against.

Talk about punching above one’s weight class.

She rests her elbows on the railing of the building she is perched upon and watches on with an idyllic calm that is unprofessional on the battlefield. Her breath comes out her as small white puffs from the cold of the winter weather.

“You having fun?” She enquires teasingly into the personal commlink she sets up between herself and Fareeha. Fareeha swivels and turns, and by a hairs breath does she avoid the punch of the titan at her flying frame. “That was a close one.”

Fareeha growls.

“Maker- I-” She dodges another strike and flies out of the way with the help of the blast of her concussive shot. She turns for a fraction and Widowmaker swears she is glaring right at her- “I’m _busy_.” She swivels again fires a few rockets at the center of the titan and cracks the core a smidgen. Something close to a victorious grunt leaves her lips before she composes herself. “The commlinks are not for small talk.”

Widowmaker sighs.

“Your emotions make you vulnerable.”

“ _Maker_.” There is an edge in her tone, a growl of a warning. The omnic almost gets her again from how distracted she is at reprimanding her. She dodges in time. “Piece of shit.”

Widowmaker chuckles at the comment.

It is rare for Fareeha to swear. The woman must actually be somewhat rankled.

“Ooh la la. Are you in trouble?” She pulls out her grappling hook and takes off into a running start to the side of the building. “Let me give you a little help. You seem like you need it.”

“What are you... Don’t-!”

Widowmaker leaps off the edge of the building and shoots her grappling hook off to another building, using the momentum of the swing to land right onto Fareeha. The woman looks properly alarmed at the sudden impact of Widowmaker crashing onto her. Fareeha’s arms, accordingly with her trained instincts, immediately wrap around her waist to ensure her safety from falling from the height in which they were at.

She is glad for Fareeha’s training.

A drop from this high of a level would leave her in a state that not even miracle worker, Angela Ziegler, could ever hope to fix. The best thing they could do for her is to call up a funeral shop to begin preparations for a ceremony in her name.

“How can this possibly help?!”

Widowmaker ignores her and clicks the switch of her grappling gun, and they are pulled immediately to the building the hook is embedded in. The trajectory they take makes them pass near the head the titan, close enough for Widowmaker to throw her spider bomb right onto the glass shield of the cockpit. It sticks and explodes. Amidst the smoke and the cloudy visibility from the explosion, Widowmaker takes the opportunity to retract her grappling gun and pocket it back on her waist.

“This is dangerous. I’m going to drop you off here-”

“ _Non_. Keep flying to the building we were going towards.” Widowmaker commands as she forces the woman to face her back to the titan mid-flight and keep towards the building they had been flying towards. Widowmaker wraps her legs securely around Fareeha’s waist and pushes herself up to a higher vantage point by pressing on Fareeha’s large pauldrons. She trains her sniper rifle over the woman’s large pauldrons and ignores the dig of Fareeha’s pointed visor into her ribcage due to her lifted stance. “But stay steady. I’m going to take a few shots.”

Fareeha complies with her orders.

Widowmaker takes a deep breath and fires four rounds with pinpoint accuracy. The shots hit the limbs of the titan, weakening the already rocket-damaged joints.

“Did you get him?”

“… Who do you think I am?”

She feels Fareeha nod against her ribcage.

“I’m going to drop you off somewhere now. That was dangerous and don’t do that again without warning. Scratch that. I mean just never.” Fareeha grumbles softly, and Widowmaker would not have heard it if it wasn’t for the personal commlink still between her and Fareeha. “But, since you did help… Thank you for the assist.”

Widowmaker briefly smiles at the display of gratitude before it drops when she notices that the smoke has cleared from the cockpit of the titan. The pilot looks reasonably angry. Widowmaker leans back in Fareeha's arms and grabs her face, tilting it upwards to meet her gaze.

“It seems you shouldn’t thank me just yet.”

Fareeha looks over her shoulder. Her nostrils flare and her eyes widen in an alarm that not even the gold tint of her visor could hide and she swivels and turns so she now faces the titan and Widowmaker faces the buildings. Her gauntlet covered arms still have a tight grip around her waist, her rocket launcher digging into the small of her back. Widowmaker hears metal hiss and sees that Fareeha has unlatched the covers to the rockets that riddle the inside of her suit. She hugs Fareeha tighter in anticipation for what was about to happen.

“Justice rains from above!”

Rockets start screaming out of where they are stationed in Fareeha’s suit and Widowmaker’s ears rattle and ring from the whizzing of the rockets leaving. It is loud and deafening and Widowmaker hopes that Fareeha has earplugs in her helmet, or else the woman will end up deaf in under a year from the decibel of sound. She clutches Fareeha tight as the rockets sail, the blowback from each ejection pushing them back roughly with enough force to strategically evade the charging titan’s swipes and grabs.

And though she cannot see it, back faced to the titan and staring at the building in front of them, she can feel it. Just how close the titan was despite her well delivered shots to the joints. Widowmaker can feel the air that strikes down, up, left and right from the power of the titan’s swings brushing her exposed back. Probably only a meter or two away from ripping at their flesh.

They make it to the building and Fareeha roughly throws her into one of the upper floors through a broken window.

“I’ll take care of the rest.” Fareeha says before jetting off once more, baiting the titan to follow her and leaving Widowmaker be. “Don’t do anything crazy anymore.”

She nods and takes a seat nearby the window and watches the modern display of David and Goliath that was currently unfolding between Fareeha and the pilot of the omnic titan.

She rests an arm on the windowsill. She is quiet, giving out nary a comment through the still open channel between her and Fareeha as the fight extends and lengthens in time. She keeps a hand rested on her sniper rifle however through it all, already reloaded and ready to go, in case Fareeha actually did need back up.

They were comrades after all.

\--------------------------

The titan goes down and the area is secured.

Stories of their victory headline every major news network and paper in France.

All of the strike team and the top brass of the French division of Overwatch were cordially invited to attend a famous French gala that will be held in two weeks.

They accepted eagerly. Partly as a matter of diplomacy and getting Overwatch back into the positive light, but mostly because they were all due for a break. A gala might just be what was needed for them to destress.

There would be free alcohol, if nothing else.

\--------------------------

She can’t go to the gala.

Not looking like this.

Her body is lithe, fit and formed in the exquisite figure of a woman who had years of practice in the art of dance. The makeup that she brushed onto her face blended and contoured correctly. Lashes thick, highlighter glimmering off her cheeks, and the dark smoky eyes perfection, if she may say so herself.

However her lip and her hairline.

Widowmaker sighed and felt her hatred at Dr. Brown double further. No amount of makeup or contouring or blush could hide the recession of her hairline at odds and ends, and needless to say, a curled lip that showed her baring teeth could not be hidden either by paint or powder.

She looks hideous.

She hears the door click open behind her and hates how she flinches and lifts a hand to instinctively hide the rip of her mouth.

“Still not done?”

She focuses her gaze on Fareeha without turning, staring at the woman through the mirror that sits in front of her. The woman is dapper in a tailored three-piece black suit. A satin gold tie hangs around her neck and matching handkerchief rests in her breast pocket, neatly squared. Her lips thin as best as it could, and it hurts Widowmaker to see, even through her covering fingers, that her teeth still show from the ugly curl of her upper lip at the right corner.

“I shouldn’t go.”

Fareeha walks over closer, brows furrowed in tempered worry.

“You were excited before. Why not? What changed?”

Widowmaker plays with her fingers and does not meet Fareeha’s gaze as she sits beside her, her cologne filling Widowmaker’s nostrils with the clean cut scent of frankincense and bright citrus notes. Gathering her courage, she faces Fareeha with a turn of the head.

“Why not, you ask? What changed?” She points at herself. “Look at me, Fareeha.”

Fareeha stares her square in the face and then down the length of her frame and then back up to her face. Confusion is written all over her face and Widowmaker feels struck by the sight of it.

“Maker. I don’t see anything wrong.”

Her voice is a gentle murmur when she responds, but there is no hesitance or lie instilled in them. Sincerity bleeds without restraint and it pours forth as well from her gaze and her honest posture.

“Not everyone would agree with you.”

Fareeha’s eyes hold hers hostage with a penetrating and hard stare.

“Do they matter?”

Widowmaker considers the simple question. A weight lifts off her shoulders when she finds what her answer is. She rises from her seat, smooths her dress and smirks at Fareeha, who is still sitting on the chair.

“No, they don’t.”

Fareeha grins at her answer, a full-bodied smile that rings in warmth. She stands and adjusts her jacket and fixes her rumpled tie. She quirks a brow at Widowmaker.

“Then there’s no problem.” She pats her on the shoulder lightly twice before squeezing. “Insecurity is not a good look on you, Maker. And someone as pretty as you have no reason to be scared.”

Widowmaker can only laugh. She tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You really believe that.”

“That you have nothing to worry about?” Fareeha asks in clarification. She makes an agreeing hum. Fareeha nods again. “I do. I do believe that.”

Widowmaker smirks at how Fareeha misinterpreted her statement for a question.

“I think you look beautiful.”

That makes Widowmaker feel warm, hearing it said so unabashedly. She laughs softly once more, this time to let the fluttering feelings that go bubbling in her gut from such a sweet and sincerely delivered off-hand comment free.

“Keep talking like that, chaton,” Widowmaker crosses her arms, and does not try to hide the pleased smile on her face. “And I might just fall for you.”

“Really?” Fareeha jests lightly, a non-serious grin etched on her lips. “You mean it?”

Gerard enters her mind. His sweet smile, his way with words, his everything. Fareeha is charming with her strong jawline and stronger moral compass that makes her an unrelenting force in battle, but she doesn’t hold a candle to Gerard. She smirks and shrugs, the answer as clear as day to her.

“No. At best you’re only second-choice.”

Fareeha laughs with a shake of her head at the teasing slight, but offers out an elbow.

“Let me take you to the gala personally, regardless?”

“You want to drive me? Even after I called you second choice? It sounds like you may be the one falling for me.” She says mockingly as she grabs hold the crook of the elbow offered to her anyways, and allows Fareeha to guide them to the car. “Why haven’t you asked, Angela?”

Fareeha simply chuckles.

“Angela left first with Winston. A few politicians wanted to meet them beforehand.”

“So I was second choice?”

Fareeha tilts her head at her, furrowing her brows in a faux-serious look. She nods.

“But of course.” Her serious visage breaks and she grins lopsidedly in that restrained way of hers that is teasing in a delicate manner. “Guess we’re each other’s second choices.”

Widowmaker releases a breath sharply through her nose.

“What an astute observation by you.”

\--------------------------

The ballroom is certainly lavish, like the rest of the castle that the gala is hosted in.

This castle that is twice as large as Chateau Guillard.

(She is a little bit envious)

Widowmaker watches the crowd around her from the top of the flight of stairs, holding an empty champagne flute and wondering when the next waiter would spot her finished drink and give her a top up. The alcohol at this party has been exquisite, but she expected nothing less from a party hosted by her own people. As another waiter passes by her with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, she shakes her head and realizes that perhaps she must move from where she is rooted to find a refill. With a sashay, she makes her way off into the crowd find a server who held a bottle of wine in their hands.

She finds one near the balcony entrance, after refusing the offered plates of hors d’oeuvres from plenty other waiters. She places her empty champagne flute on their metal serving plate and picks up a filled glass of dark red wine.

“ _Merci_.”

She was about to turn and make her way back to the middle of the crowd when she sees a familiar silhouette outside, enjoying the open night air alone apart from the others milling about in the balcony.

“Excuse me, miss.” A waiter says with yet _another_ plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Would you like some-”

She flicks her hair straight into their face as she passes him, reveling in the way they sputtered and tried to keep their composure. She ignores the questions and apologies that come out of his mouth soon after as she continues her beeline towards her target.

Widowmaker rests her back on the banister. Fareeha notices her right away.

“Maker.”

“Fareeha.” Fareeha was hunched, resting her elbows on the banister as she looked out into the open with a dazed and tired look. She swirls her wine and stares down at Fareeha coyly with a knowing smile. “Tired of the crowd?”

Fareeha smiles briefly and nods.

“A little.” The mechanical flare in her voice deepens her tone. “The language barrier also makes it a bit more stressful than usual.” She straightens up and places her hands on top of the banister, pushing on it to lift her legs off the ground and letting them dangle. She tilts her head at Widowmaker. “How ‘bout you? Why are you out here, when you could be in there?”

She takes another swallow of her wine.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Fareeha drops back down to the ground and chuckles, once. Widowmaker can smell the wine on Fareeha’s breath and wonders if maybe the woman was perhaps buzzed.

“Careful, Maker. Eavesdroppers might think you’re going soft.”

She snorts. “If they try anything that will be the last thought they think.”

Fareeha smiles, and amusement is present in her response.

“I have no doubt.”

A quiet shrouds them after that exchange, and though she is used to long silences taking up space in her interactions with Fareeha (and most of the time, enjoys them immensely) she feels an urge today to break the silence and get Fareeha’s opinion on something.

On anything.

She blames this desire on the alcohol she has consumed.

“Fareeha-” She starts and then stops, finding that she does not have anything to say. She tries again. “Fareeha…”

“Yes, Maker?”

She cranes her head up to meet Fareeha’s gaze. Fareeha meets it half-way, staring back with a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes and the slightest quirk of an eyebrow to coax her into divulging more. Widowmaker breathes sharply through her nostrils and runs her tongue across her teeth. She would look like a fool if she admitted that she had nothing prepared to say. She opens her mouth and hopes something of substance would pour forth.

“Why do you call me Maker?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“But why Maker?”

Fareeha cocks her head, furrowing her brows, a confused smile on her face.

“Well, you may not think yourself to be Amelie exactly, but shortening ‘Widowmaker’ to ‘Widow’ is a little…”

The rest of her sentence trails of and Fareeha finishes it with a cringe and a scrunch of her face. She couldn’t agree more with her gestured assessment. Gerard flashes in her mind and the irony of both those titles on her own person is hammered down with a violent curdle in her stomach.

“But why not? Why not simply call me Amelie?”

Everyone else did and in a way, they were not wrong.

Fareeha observes her, golden eye glowing in the dark of the night. Her expression is unnervingly blank and Widowmaker feels like she is being picked apart by the intensity of her gaze. Most of all, by the sudden hardness and objection she sees swirling in the deep of her eyes.

“Are you?”

Well, she has her memories, her face and her features, but that wasn’t the question Fareeha was asking, was it? Is she, Amelie Lacroix? Is she truly? Even if she has many of the same hobbies and loves and likes?

…

No.

She supposes not.

Not even if they loved the same man.

(And not even though she has decided to keep the memory of their wedding day like it was also hers to keep)

“So you’ll keep calling me, Maker?” Widowmaker asks. “Until when?”

“Until you find your name.” Fareeha replies smoothly. The air around her is lighter again. She may have not answered her question per say, but it seems Fareeha was somehow satisfied with her non-answer question in return. Fareeha’s braids and her gold beads sway in time with the fine breeze in the air. “It is fitting anyways. The name ‘Maker’, I mean.” She clarifies. “Fitting, because you’re trying to figure out who you are and what you want to do. You are literally your own maker.”

Widowmaker considers Fareeha words for a moment.

“…Mm.”

Fareeha relinquishes her hold on the banister and pats her hands clean on her pants.

“That was a heavy conversation.” She points out obviously, then cups a hand to her ear. “Hear that? They’re playing songs that you can waltz too.”

Widowmaker cocks her head and listens.

“Dancing with Tears in my Eyes.” She mutters before finishing off her wine and placing the glass away on a nearby table. “That is a waltz song… I’m surprised you know it.”

A hand extends out to her.

“You want to dance?”

Widowmaker blinks and stares at the outstretched hand. She hadn’t danced throughout this whole gala, though not from a lack of invitation from other party guests. Fareeha had been right in that regard, her scars did nothing to stop at least a handful of people to still vie for her attention, and no one dared to laugh behind her back as long as she remained appeared confident with her strut.

“You do not want to?”

Her eyes flicked up to Fareeha’s face. She cocks her head.

“Angela?”

“I have danced with her three times and will dance with her at least another three times before the night ends.” Fareeha explains seriously and Widowmaker feels compelled to smack a hand over Fareeha’s mouth to stop her sudden spiel. “If nothing else, the last dance of this evening is hers.”

“And right now?”

“She is busy again with diplomats.”

She smirks and takes the hand that is offered, placing her other arm around Fareeha’s shoulder as Fareeha places a hand on her waist. They begin to dance to the slow beat of the song.

“So let me guess. I’m your second choice.”

She had expected Fareeha to break out in a lopsided smile and laughingly agree with her statement. Not for the smile that curls into life to seem so soft and for Fareeha to shake her head with a gravity.

“No, Maker. I’m not dancing with you because you’re second choice.”

“… Then what?” She whispers. “Why?”

Fareeha spins her around artfully and in the back of her mind, in the midst of her confusion, she wonders where the woman had learned to waltz. She would ask her at a later date.

“Well, we’re friends aren’t we?” She says simply. Her movements still and they stop dancing for a moment as Fareeha continues. “And I know you like to dance. So why not?”

Widowmaker blinks, and then nods, finding no fault in her reasoning.

Her lips curl into a beautiful smile.

“True. Friends do dance, but I have to warn you…” She purposely steps on Fareeha’s loafers, the sharp pointed heel digging into her new steel toes. Fareeha does not yelp, but her eye does twitch and her mouth bares into a snarling sham of a grin. She winks at the visceral reaction. “I am a _terrible_ dancer.”

“Unbelievable.” Fareeha says through clenched teeth, trying to keep the grin on her face for the sake of pretenses for the crowd that milled about around them. What a scandal it would be if one of the Overwatch members got into a fight in the middle of one of the biggest galas in France. She subtly kicks her heeled foot away. “What is your game?”

She shrugged coyly.

“There’s no game,” She says as she flutters her eyes in an innocent fashion. “Like I said. _Terrible_ dancer.”

“Luckily for you,” Fareeha hisses out through gritted teeth, pulling Widowmaker closer with the hand that curls around her waist. Fareeha grips her other hand tighter in her own, keeping then raised in place. Their faces inches from each other. “I am an _excellent_ lead.”

She quirks a brow, delighted by the response.

“Then show me what you got.” She taunts challengingly. “ _Chaton_.”

And Fareeha does just that.

She begins to lead her, a fire in her eyes and strength in her turns, doing her best to bend Widowmaker to her will with her movements as she simultaneously attempts to avoid Widowmaker’s downward strikes to her feet. It is two games at once and they both grin from competitive adrenaline and the sheer silliness of the whole situation. As their game is about to end, the song nearing its finish, Widowmaker catches herself laughing freely.

The next thing she notices after that, is Fareeha.

And she means really notice her.

The woman is peering down at her with a look of levity, enjoying the game as much as she was. Her features were particularly dashing under the soft light of the moon and the metal plate of a lower jaw does nothing to diminish her quiet charm in the slightest. But it is not that, that catches Widowmaker’s attention. It is instead the reality of who Fareeha is and how she views her now truly sinking in her for the first time that has her enraptured.

Fareeha, is her friend.

Honestly. Truly. She views the woman as her _friend_.

And Widowmaker cannot help but find it funny that of all the agents in Overwatch, she finds her first friend in the daughter of the woman she thought she killed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but we finally here. The story is done.  
> I hope y'all liked it. :)


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